Astounding v38n04 (1946 12) (cape1736)

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I IIAPPLN on the ball diamond,
^nappened at - the best house nartv of t

JL TT happened af the best house party of the
year, where his partner was the girl he had tried
tor weeks to meet. She simply had no time for
him, and showed it. After all, you couldn’t blame
her. And he, poor lug, never guessed what the
trouble was. They don’t teacli things like that* at
college. •*

How About You?

If you want to put your best foot forward
don’t take chances with halitosis (unpleasant
breath)*. It’s often three strikes against you right

off the bat.

f. 1,

/ 1

*

You may be free of it one day and guilty of
it the next. Why take chances' 1 Listerine Antiseptic
is the simple, wholly delightful precaution that so
many popular people never omit.

Simply rinse the mouth with Listerine Anti-
septic. Almost at once it makes your breath
fresher, sweeter, less likely to offend.

While some cases of halitosis are i f systemic
origin, most cases, say some authorities, are due
to the bacterial fermentation of tiny food particles
clinging to mouth surfaces. Listerine Antiseptic
halts such fermentation, then overcomes the odors
fermentation causes.

Lamhi in Pmarmacai. Company, St. l.nuis, Missouri

I

BE FORE ANY DATE . . .LISTERINE ANTISEPTIC FOR ORAL HYGIENE

Amm finds a new, easy vlay Id sane

D uring the war, millions of wage
earners set aside billions of dollars
for War Bonds through weekly pay de-
ductions under the Payroll Savings Plan.
Under this plan today, millions con-

tinue to buy U. S. Savings Bonds ... to
put away the money for new homes,
new cars, new appliances.

Suggestion: Why not save this new,
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SAVE TH£ EMI WAY.. .SOY MS SONDS THROUGH PAYROLL SAVINGS

Contributed by this magazine in co-operation
with the Magazine Publishers of America as a public service.

AST— 1L

Bditar

JOHN W. CAMPBELL, JR.

j4*tewnc fots.

SCIENCE FICTION

IH. D. S. Pat. M.

CONTENTS

DECEMBER, 1946 VOL. XXXVIII, NO. 4

NOVELETTES

METAMOEPHOSITE. bp Eric Frank Russell . . 6

FOR THE PUBLIC, bp Bernard I. Kahn .... 73
HAND OF THE GODS, bp A. B. van Vogt ... 1*2

SHORT STORIES

THE IMPOSSIBLE PIRATE, bp George 0. Smith 59

TIME ENOUGH, bp Levis Padgett 124

ARTICLE

BIKINI A AND B, by John W. Campbell, Jr. . . 99

READERS 9 DEPARTMENTS

THE EDITOR’S PAGE 5

THE ANALYTICAL LABORATORY 58

IN TIMES TO COME . . »8

BRASS TACKS 170

COVER BY ALEJANDRO
All Illustrations by Swenson

Tbe editorial contents bate cot been published More, »r» protected by
copyright and cannot be reprinted without publishers' permission. All stories
in this magatlue srt fletteo. No actual perseoi are designated by name or
char after. AM StHllarttp b CtfjBdAEtat

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NEXT ISSUE ON SALE DECEMBER 17. 1946

OUR MONTHLY CONTEST

The war is over, many men are
back, including tens of thousands of
professional technicians. Many
readers of Science Fiction recently
servicing radar, sonar, and similar
equipments, engineers at home who
were doing research on such de-
vices, are now free to carry on
civilian operations again.

I'd like to point out that Astound-
ing Science Fiction pays cash
money for stories; that we need
stories constantly ; that we are
found with beaming smiles and great
joy when a new, unknown author
shows up with a bell-ringer, and
that we need new authors.

It works like this : each month wc
run a contest, open to all comers.
We pay up to $2,000 first prize for
a long novel, and about $300 goes
out every month for a novelette.
For a short story, we pay from $75
to $150, depending on length.

You do not have to be an old-time
author to sell stories: our regular
buying is a wide-open, everybody-
welcome contest.

Many of our top authors today
sold us the first story submitted —
the first story ever submitted any-
where.

We do not want stories “like”
those of present authors; we want
new angles, fresh ideas, a different,
new, and interesting approach.

While this contest is, in the na-
ture of things, open to all comers,
in practice only regular readers of
Science Fiction are apt to make the

OUR MONTHLY CONTEST

grade. Of those readers, past ex-
perience indicates professional tech-
nical people have a better chance
of becoming permanent top-rankers.

We have no staff writers; every
author is a free-lance.

We don’t recommend writing for
Science Fiction as a full-time career,
but it’s a handy source of income
for auxiliaries. You can buy a new
radio with a short story, or a really
fine camera. Or if you’re really
patient, you can buy a car with a
couple of novelettes, or a short
serial. With a long serial you can
get the down payment on a house —
if you can find a house !

Incidentally, most of the authors,
once they get started, tend to find
that writing a story is something
like reading one — it can be as sur-
prising to find which way your
characters take you as to find which
way another author's plot twists!

Mechanically, preparation of
manuscript is simple enough. Type
on one side of standard typewriter
paper, double spaced. (We need
room for printers’ marks between
lines.) There’s one more impor-
tant thing: most amateur authors
fail to make the grade by omitting
that very necessary final operation.
We will not pay for a story unless
you send it in. Finish it and send
it — don’t add dust-catchers in the
overcrowded desk.

If you do send it in, you’ll hear
from UvS in about two weeks or less.

The Editor.

s

METAMORPHOSITE

Building a galactic empire takes time — a very
long time. And it may not be the same
people xvho started the job when they finish —

They let him pause halfway
along the gangway so that his
eyes could absorb the imposing
scene. He stood in the middle of
the high metal track, his left hand
firmly grasping a side rail, and
gazed into the four hundred feet
chasm beneath. Then he studied
the immense space vessels lying in
adjacent berths, his stare tracing
their gangways to their respective
elevator towers behind which stood
a great cluster of buildings whence
the spaceport control column soared
to the. clouds. The height at
which he stood, and the enormous
dimensions of his surroundings,
made him a little, doll-like figure,
a man dwarfed by the mightiest
works of man.

*

Watching him closely, his guards
noted that he did not seem especially
impressed. His eyes appeared to
discard sheer dimensions while
they sought the true meaning be-
hind it all. His face was quite
impassive as he looked around, but
all his glances were swift, intelli-
gent and assured. He compre-
hended things with that quick
confidence which denotes an agile
mind. One feature was promi-
nent in the mystery enveloping him ;
it was evident that he was no
dope.

Lieutenant Roka pushed past the
two rearmost guards, leaned on the
rail beside the silent watcher, and
explained, “This is Madistine
Spaceport. There are twenty

ASTOUNDING SCIENCE-FICTION

others like it upon this planet.
There are from two to twenty
more on every one of four thou-
sand other planets, and a few of
them considerably bigger. The
Empire is the greatest thing ever
known or ever likely to be known.
Now you see what you’re up
against.”

“ ‘Numbers and size/ ” quoth the
other. He smiled faintly and
shrugged. “What of them?”

“You’ll learn what !” Roka prom-
ised. He, too, smiled, his teeth
showing white and clean. “An
organization can grow so tremen-
dous that it’s far, far bigger than
the men who maintain it. From
then on, its continued growth and
development are well-nigh inevi-
table. It’s an irresistible force-
with no immovable object big
enough to stop it. It’s a jugger-
naut. It’s destiny, or whatever
you care to call it.”

“Bigness,” murmured the other.
“How you love bigness.” He
leaned over the railing, peered into
the chasm. “In all probability
down there is an enemy you’ve not
conquered yet.”

“Such as what?” demanded
Roka.

“A cancer bug.” The other’s
eyes swung up, gazed amusedly into
the lieutenant's. “Eh?” He
shrugged again. “Alas, for brief
mortality !”

“Move on,” snapped Roka to the
leading guard.

The procession shuffled on, two
guards, then the prisoner, then
Roka, then two more guards.

Reaching thg* tower at the end of
the track, the sextet took an eleva-
tor to ground level, found a jet car
waiting for them, a long, black
sedan with the Silver Comet of the
Empire embossed on its sides. Two
men uniformed in myrtle green
occupied its front seats while a
third stood by the open door at
rear.

“Lieutenant Roka with the speci-
men and appropriate documents,”
said Roka. He indicated the
prisoner with a brief gesture, then
handed the third man a leather
dispatch case. After that, he felt
in one pocket, extracted a printed
pad, added, “Sign here, please.”

The official signed, returned the
pad, tossed the dispatch case into
the back of the car.

“All right,” he said to the
prisoner. “Get in.”

Still impassive, the other got
into the car, relaxed on the rear
seat. Roka bent through the door-
way, offered a hand.

“Well, sorry to see the last of
you. We were just getting to know
each other, weren’t we? Don't get
any funny ideas, will you? You’re
here under duress, but remember
that you’re also somewhat of an
ambassador — that’ll give you the
right angle on things. Best of
luck !”

“Thanks.” The prisoner shook
the proffered hand, shifted over as
the green uniformed official clam-
bered in beside him. The door
slammed, the jets roared, the car
shot smoothly off. The prisoner
smiled faintly as he caught Ijloka's
final wave.

MBTAMORPHOSITH

“Nice guy, Roka,” offered the
official.

“Quite.”

“Specimen,” the official chuckled.
“Always they call ’em specimens.
Whether of human shape or not,
any seemingly high or presumably
intelligent form of life imported
from any newly discovered planet
is, in bureaucratic jargon, a speci-
men, So that’s what you are,
whether you like it or whether you
don’t. Mustn’t let it worry you,
though. Nearly every worthwhile
specimen has grabbed himself a
high official post when his planet
has become part of the Empire.”

“Nothing worries me,” assured
the specimen easily.

“No?”

“No.”

The official became self-conscious.
He picked the dispatch case off the
floor, jiggled it aimlessly around,
judged its weight, then flopped it
on his lap. The two in front main-
tained grim silence and scowled
steadily through the windshield as
the car swung along a broad ave-
nue.

At good speed they swooped
over a humpback crossing, over-
took a couple of highly colored,
streamlined cars, swung left at the
end of the avenue. This brought
them up against a huge pair of
metal gates set in a great stone
wall. The place would have looked
like a jail to the newcomer if he’d
known what jails look like — which
he didn’t.

The gates heaved themselves
open, revealing a broad drive which

ran between well-tended lawns to
the main entrance of a long, low
building with a dock tower at its
center. The entrance, another metal
job heavy enough to withstand a
howitzer, lay directly beneath the
tower. The black sedan curved
sidewise before it, stopped with a
faint hiss of air brakes.

“This is it.” The official at the
back of the car opened a door,
heaved himself out, dragging the
case after him. His prisoner fol-
lowed, shut the door, and the sedan
swooped away.

“You see,” said the ma,n in green
uniform. He gestured toward the
lawns and the distant wall. “There’s
the wall, the gate, and a space from
here to there in which you’d be
immediately seen by the patrols.
Beyond that wall are a thousand
other hazards of which you know
nothing. I’m telling you this be-
cause here’s where you’ll have
your home until matters get set-
tled. I would advise you not to
let your impatience overcome your
judgment, as others have done.
It’s no use running away when
you’ve nowhere to run.”

“Thanks,” acknowledged the
other. “I won’t run until I’ve
good reason and think I know
where I’m going.”

The official gave him a sharp look.
A rather ordinary fellow, he de-
cided, a little under Empire aver-
age in height, slender, dark, thirty-
ish and moderately good-looking.
But possessed of the cockiness of
youth. Under examination he’d
probably prove boastful and mis-
leading. He sighed his misgiving.

ASTOUNDING SCIENCE-FICTION

A pity that they hadn’t snatched
somebody a good deal older.

“Harumph !” he said apropos of
nothing.

He approached the door, the
other following. The door opened
of its own accord, the pair entered
a big hall, were met by another
official in myrtle green.

“A specimen from a new world/*
said the escort, “for immediate
examination.”

The second official stared curi-
ously at the newcomer, sniffed in
disdain, said, “O.K. — you know
where to take him,”

Their destination proved to be a
large examination room at one end
of a marble corridor. Here, the
official handed over the dispatch
case to a man in white, departed
without further comment. There
were seven men and one woman in
the room, all garbed in white.

They studied the specimen calcu-
latingly, then the woman asked,
“You have learned our language?”

“Yes.”

“Very well, then, you may un-
dress. Remove all your clothes.”

“Not likely!” said the victim in
a level voice.

The woman didn’t change expres-
sion. She bent over an official
form lying on her desk, wrote in a
neat hand in the proper section:
“Sex convention normal.” Then
she went out.

When the door had shut behind
her, the clothes came off. The
seven got to work on the prisoner,
completing the form as they went
along. They did the job quietly,
methodically, as an obvious matter

of old-established routine. Height:
four-point-two lineal units. Weight :
seventy-seven m i g r a d s. Hair :
type-S, with front peaked. No
wisdom teeth. All fingers double-
jointed. Every piece of data was
accepted as if it were perfectly
normal, and jotted down on the
official form. Evidently they were
accustomed to dealing with entities
differing from whatever was re-
garded as the Empire norm.

They X-rayed his cranium, throat,
chest and abdomen from front,
back and both sides and dutifully
recorded that something that wasn't
an appendix was located where his
appendix ought to be. Down went
the details, every one of them,
Membraned epiglottis. Optical
astigmatism: left eye point seven,
right eye point four. Lapped
glands in throat in lieu of tonsils.
Crenated ear lobes. Cerebral
serrations complex and deep.

“Satisfied ?” he asked when
apparently they’d finished with
him.

“You can put on your clothes.”

The head man of the seven
studied the almost completed form
thoughtfully. He watched the
subject dressing himself, noted the
careful, deliberate manner in which
the garments were resumed one by
one. He called three of his assist-
ants. conferred with them in low
tones.

Finally he wrote at the bottom of
the form: “Not necessarily a more
advanced type, but definitely a
variation, Possibly dangerous.
Should be watched.” Unlocking
the dispatch case, he shoved the

MBTAMORPHOSITF!

form in on top of the other papers
it contained, locked the case, gave
it to an assistant, "Take him along
to the next stage.”

Stage two was another room al-
most as large as its predecessor and
made to look larger by virtue of
comparative emptiness. Its sole
furnishings consisted of an enor-
mous carpet with pile so heavy it
had to be waded through, also a
large desk of glossy plastic and two
pneumatic chairs. The walls were
of translucite and the ceiling emit-
ted a frosty glow.

In the chair behind the desk re-
posed a swarthy, saturnine individ-
ual with lean features and a hooked
nose. His dress was dapper and
a jeweled ring ornamented his left
index finger. His black eyes gazed
speculatively as the prisoner was
marched the full length of the car-
pet and seated in the second chair.
He accepted the leather case, un-
locked it, spent a long time submit-
ting its contents to careful examina-
tion.

In the end, he said, "So it took
them eight months to get you here
even at supra-spatial speed. Tut
tut, how we grow! Life won’t be
long enough if this goes on.
They’ve brought you a devil of a
distance, eh? And they taught you
our language on the way. Did you
have much difficulty in learn-
ing it?”

"None,” said the prisoner.

"You have a natural aptitude for
languages, I suppose?”

"I wouldn’t know.”

The dark man leaned forward, a

sudden gleam in his eyes. A faint
smell of morocco leather exuded
from him. His speech was
smooth.

"Your answer implies that there
is only one language employed on
your home world.”

"Does it?” The prisoner stared
blankly at his questioner.

The other sat back again, thought
for a moment, then went on, "It is
easy to discern that you are not in
the humor to be co-operative. I
don’t know why. You’ve been
treated with every courtesy and
consideration, or should have been.
Have you any complaint to make
on that score?”

"No,” said the prisoner bluntly.

"Why not?” The dark man
made no attempt to conceal his
surprise. "This is the point where
almost invariably I am treated to
an impassioned tirade about kidnap-
ing. But you don’t complain ?”

"What good would it do me?”

"No good whatever,” assured the
other.

"See?” The prisoner settled
himself more comfortably in his
chair. His smile was grim.

For a while, the dark man
contemplated the jewel in his ring,
twisting it this way and that to
catch the lights from its facets.
Eventually he wrote upon the
form the one word: "Fatalistic,”
after which he murmured, "Well,
we’ll see how far we can get, any-
way.” He picked up a paper.
"Your name is Harold Harold-
Myra?”

"That’s correct.”

10

ASTOUNDING SCIKNCB-FICTION

“Mine’s Helman, by the way.
Remember it, because you may need
me sometime. Now this Harolcl-
Myra — is that your family name?”

“It is the • compound of my
father's and mother’s names.”

“Hm-m-m ! I suppose that that's
the usual practice on your world r”

“Yes.”

“What if you marry a girl
named Betty ?”

“My name would still be Harold-
Myra,” the prisoner informed.
“Hers would still be the com-
pound of her own parents’ names.
But our children would be called
Harold-Betty.”

“I see. Now according to this
report, you were removed from a
satellite after two of our ships had
landed on its parent planet and
failed to take off again.”

“I was certainly removed from
a satellite. I know nothing about
your ships.”

“Do you know why they failed
to take off?”

“How could I ? I wasn’t there !”

Helman frowned, chewed his
lower lip, then rasped, “It is I
who am supposed to be putting the
questions.”

“Go ahead then,” said Harold
Harold-Myra.

“Your unspoken thought being,
‘And a lot of good it may do you,’ ”
put in Helman shrewdly. He
frowned again, added the word:
“Stubborn” to the form before
him. “It seems to me,” he went
on, “that both of us are behaving
rather childishly. Mutual antago-
nism profits no one. Why can’t we
adopt the right attitude towards

each other? Let’s be frank, eh?”
He smiled, revealing bright den-
tures. “I’ll put my cards on the
table and you put yours.”

“Let’s see yours.”

Helman’s smile vanished as
quickly as it had appeared. He
looked momentarily pained. “Dis-
trustful” went down on the form.
He spoke, choosing his words care-
fully.

“I take it that you learned a lot
about the Empire during your trip
here. You know that it is a mighty
organization of various forms of
intelligent life, most of them, as it
happens, strongly resembling yours
and mine, and all of them owing
allegiance to the particular solar
system in which you’re now lo-
cated. You have been told, or
should have been told, that the
Empire sprang from here, that
throughout many, many centuries
it has spread over four thousand
worlds, and that it’s still spread-
ing.”

“I’ve heard all of that,” admit-
ted the other.

“Good! Then you’ll be able to
understand that you’re no more
than a temporary victim of our
further growth, but, in many ways,
a lucky man.”

“I fail to perceive the luck.”

“You will, you will,” soothed
Helman. “All in good time.”
Mechanically, his smile had re-
turned, and he was making an at-
tempt at joviality. “Now I can
assure you that an organization so
old and so widespread as ours is
not without a modicum of wisdom.
Our science has given us incredible

METAMQBPHOSITF

11

powers, including the power to
blow whole worlds apart and desic-
cate them utterly, but that doesn’t
make us disregard caution. After
a wealth of experience covering a
multitude of planets we’ve learned
that we’re still not too great to be
brought low. Indeed, for all our
mighty power, we can err in man-
ner disastrous to us all. So we step
carefully.”

“Sounds as if someone once put
a scare into you,” commented Har-
old Harold-Myra.

Helman hesitated, then said, “As
a matter of fact, someone did. I’ll
tell you about it. Many decades
ago we made a first landing on a
new planet. The ship failed to
take off. Our exploratory vessels
always travel in threes, so a sec-
ond vessel went down to the aid
of its fellow. That didn’t take off
either. But the third ship, wait-
ing in space, got a despairing mes-
sage warning that the world held
highly intelligent life of an elusive
and parasitic type.”

“And they confiscated the bodies
you’d so kindly provided,” sug-
gested Harold.

“You know all about this life
form?” Helman asked. His fingers
slid toward an invisible spot on the
surface of his desk.

“It’s the first I’ve heard of
them,” replied the other. “Confisca-
tion was logical.”

“I suppose so,” Helman admitted
with some reluctance. He went on,
his keen eyes on his listener. “They
didn’t get the chance to take over
everyone. A few men realized

32

their peril in the nick of time,
kicked themselves in one vessel
away from the parasites and away
from their -stricken fellows. There
weren’t enough of them to take off,
so they beamed a warning. The
third ship saw the menace at once;
if action wasn’t taken swiftly it
meant that we’d handed the keys of
the cosmos to unknown powers.
They destroyed both ships with,
one atomic bomb. Later, a task
ship arrived, took the stern action
we deemed necessary, and dropped
a planet wrecker. The world dis-
solved into flashing gases. It was
an exceedingly narrow squeak.
The Empire, for all its wealth,
ingenuity and might, could not
stand if no citizen knew the real
nature of his neighbor.”

“A sticky situation,” admitted
Harold Harold-Myra. “I see now
where I come in — I am a sample.”

“Precisely.” Helman was jovial
again. “All we wish to discover is
whether your world is a safe
one.”

“Safe for what?”

“For straightforward contact.”

“Contact for what?” Harold
persisted.

“Dear me! I’d have thought a
person of your intelligence would
see the mutual advantages to be
gained from a meeting of different
cultures.”

“I can see the advantages all
right. I can also see the conse-
quences.”

“To what do you refer?” Hel-
man’s amiability began to evapo-
rate.

“Embodiment in your Empire.”

ASTOUNDING SCIENCE-FICTION

"7'ut” said Helman impatiently.
"Your world would join us only of
its own free will. In the second
place* what’s wrong with being
part of the Empire? In the third,
how d'you know that your opinions
coincide with those of your fel-
lows? They may think differently.
They may prove eager to come in.”
‘‘It looks like it seeing that
you’ve got two ships stuck there.”
“Ah, then you admit that they’re
forcibly detained?”

“1 admit nothing. For all I
know, your crews may be sitting
there congratulating themselves on
getting away from the Empire —
while my people are taking steps to
throw them out.”

Helman’s lean face went a shade
darker. His long, slender hands
clenched and unclenched while his
disciplined mind exerted itself to
suppress the retort which his emo-
tion strove to voice.

Then he said, “Citizens of the
Empire don’t run away from it.
Those who do run don’t get very
far.”

“A denial and an affirmative,”
commented Harold amusedly. "All
in one breath. You can't have it
both ways. Either they run or
they don’t.”

“You know perfectly well what
I meant.” Helman, speaking slowly
and evenly, wasn’t going to let this
specimen bait him. “The desire to
flee is as remote as the uselessness
of it is complete.”

“The former being due to the
latter?”

“Not at all?” said Helman
sharply,

“You damn your ramshackle
Empire with every remark you
make.” Harold informed. “I
reckon I know it better than
you do.”

“And how do you presume to
know our Empire?” inquired Hel-
man. His brows arched in sarcas-
tic interrogation. “On what basis
do you consider yourself competent
to judge it?”

“On the basis of history,” Har-
old told him. “Your people are
sufficiently like us to be like us —
and if you can’t understand that
remark, well. I can’t help it. On
my world we’re old, incredibly old,
and we’ve learned a lot from a past
which is long and lurid. We’ve had
empires by the dozens, though none
as great as yours. They all went
the same way — down the sinkhole.
They all vanished for the same
fundamental and inevitable reasons.
Empires come and empires go, but
little men go on forever.”

“Thanks,” said Helman quickly.
He wrote on the form: “Anarchis-
tic,” then, after further thought,
added: “Somewhat of a crack-
pot.”

Harold Harold-Myra smiled
slowly and a little sadly. The
writing was not within line of his
vision, but he knew what had been
written as surely as if he’d written
it himself. To the people of liis
ancient planet it was not necessary
to look ai things in order to see
them.

Pushing the form to one side,
Helman said, “The position is that

META M OR PH 0 SITU

1#

every time we make a landing we
take the tremendous risk of present-
ing our secrets of space conquest to
people of unknown abilities and
doubtful ambitions. It’s a chance
that has to be taken. You under-
stand that?” He noted the other’s
curt nod, then went on, “As mat-
ters stand at present, your world
holds two of our best vessels.
Your people, for all we can tell,
may be able to gain a perfect
understanding of them, copy them
in large numbers, even improve on
them. Your people may take to
the cosmos, spreading ideas that
don’t coincide with ours. There-
fore, in theory, the choice is war
or peace. Actually, the choice for
your people will be a simple one:
co-operation or dessication. I hate
to tell you this, but your hostile
manner forces me to do so.”

“Uncommunicative might be a
better word than hostile,” sug-
gested Harold Harold-Myra.

“Those who’re not with us are
against us,” retorted Helman.
“We’re not being dictatorial ; merely
realistic. Upon what sort of
information we can get out of you
depends the action we take regard-
ing your world. You are, you
must understand, the representative
of your kind. We are quite will-
ing to accept that your people
resemble you to within reasonable
degree, and from our analysis of
you we’ll decide whether — ”

“We get canonized or vaporized,”
put in Harold.

“If you like.” Helman refused
to be disturbed. He’d now ac-
quired the sang-froid of one con-

14

scious of mastery. “It is for you
to decide the fate of your planet.
It’s an enormous responsibility to
place on one man's shoulders, but
there it is, and you’ve got to bear
it. And remember, we’ve other
methods of extracting from you
the information we require. Now,
for the last time, are you willing
to subject yourself to my cross-
examination, or are you not?”

“The answer is,” said Harold
carefully, “not!”

“Very well then.” Helman ac-
cepted it phlegmatically. He
pressed the spot on his desk. “You
compel me to turn from friendly
interrogation to forcible analysis.
I regret it, but it is your own
choice.” Two attendants entered,
and he said to them, “Take him to
stage three.”

The escorting pair left him in
this third and smaller room and
he had plenty of time to look
around before the three men en-
gaged therein condescended to no-
tice him. They were all in white,
this trio, but more alert and less
automatic than the white-garbed
personnel of the medical examina-
tion room. Two of them were
young, tall, muscular, and hard of
countenance. The third was short,
thickset, middle-aged and had a
neatly dipped beard.

Briskly they were switching on
a huge array of apparatus covering
one wall of the room. The set-up
was a mass of plastic panels, dials,
meters, buttons, switches, sockets
with corded plugs, and multi-
connection pieces. From inside or

ASTOUNDING SCIENCE-FICTION

dose behind this affair came a low,
steady hum. Before it, centrally
positioned, was a chair.

Satisfied that all was in readi-
ness, the bearded man said to Har-
old, “O.K., be seated.” He signed
to his two assistants who stepped
forward as if eager to cope with
a refusal.

Harold smiled, waved a negligent
hand, sat himself in the chair.
Working swiftly, the three attached
cushioned metal bands to his
ankles, calves, thighs, chest, neck
and head. Flexible metal tubes
ran from the bands to the middle
of the apparatus while, in addition,
the one about his head was con-
nected to a thin, multicore cable.

They adjusted the controls to
give certain readings on particular
meters, after which the bearded

METAMORPHOSITE

one fixed glasses on his nose, picked
up a paper, stared at it myopically.
He spoke to the subject in the
chair.

“I am about to ask you a series
of questions. They will be so
phrased that the answers may be
given as simple negatives or affirma-
tives. You can please yourself
whether or not you reply vocally
—it is a matter of total indifference
to me.”

He glanced at Harold and his
eyes, distorted into hugeness be-
hind thick-lensed glasses, were
cold and blank. His finger pressed
a button ; across the room a
camera whirred into action, began
to record the readings on the vari-
ous meters.

Disregarding everything else, and
keeping his attention wholly on the

15

man in the chair, the bearded one
said, “You were discovered on a
satellite — yes or no?”

Harold grinned reminiscently,
did not reply.

“Therefore your people know
how to traverse space?”

No reply.

“In fact they can go further than
to a mere satellite. They can reach
neighboring planets — -yes or no?”
No reply.

“Already they have explored
neighboring planets ?”

No reply.

“The truth is that they can do
even better than that — they have
reached other solar systems?”

He smiled once more, enigmati-
cally.

“Your world is a world by
itself?”

Silence.

“It is one of an association
of worlds ?”

Silence.

“It is the outpost world of an-
other Empire?”

Silence.

“But that Empire is smaller than
ours?”

No response,

“Greater than ours?”

“Heavens, I’ve been led to be-
lieve that yours is the greatest
ever,” said Harold sardonically.

“Be quiet!” One of the young
ones standing at his side gave him
an irate thrust on the shoulder.
“Or what?”

“Or we’ll slap your ears off!”
The bearded man, who had
paused expressionlessly through

10

this brief interlude, carried on
nonchalantly.

“Your kind are the highest form
of life on your planet? There is
no other intelligent life thereon?
You knew of no other intelligent
life anywhere previous to encounter-
ing emissaries of the Empire?”

The questioner was in no way
disturbed by his victim’s complete
lack of response, and his bearing
made that fact clear. Occasion-
ally peering at the papers in his
hand, but mostly favoring his lis-
tener with a cold, owlish stare, he
ploughed steadily on. The ques-
tions reached one hundred, two
hundred, then Harold lost count
of them. Some were substitutes
or alternatives for others, some
made cross reference with others
asked before or to be asked later,
some were obvious traps. All were
cogent and pointed. All met stub-
born silence.

They finished at length, and the
bearded one put away his papers
with the grumbling comment, “It’s
going to take us all night to rational-
ize this lot!” He gave Harold a
reproving stare. “You might just
as well have talked in the first place.
It would have saved us a lot of
bother and gained you a lot of
credit.”

“Would it?” Harold was in-
credulous.

“Take him away,” snapped the
bearded man.

One of the young men looked
questioningly at the oldster, who
understood the unspoken query and
responded, “No, not there. Not
yet, anyway. It mightn’t be neces-

ABTOCNDJNG SCIENCE-FICTION

sary. Let’s see what we’ve got
first.” He took off his glasses,
scratched his beard. “Put him in
his apartment. Give him some-
tiling to eat.” He cackled gratingly.
“Let the condemned man eat a
hearty meal.”

The apartment proved to be
compact, well-appointed, comfort-
able. Three rooms : bathroom, bed-
room, sitting room, the latter with
a filled bookcase, a large electric
radiator, sunken heating panels for
extra warmth, and a magniscreen
television set.

Harold sprawled at ease in a soft,
enveloping chair, watched a short-
haired, burly man wheel in a gener-
ous meal. Hungry as he was, his
attention didn’t turn to the food.
He kept it fixed on the burly man
who, unconscious of the persistent
scrutiny, methodically put out the
meat, bread, fruit, cakes and cof-
fee.

As the other finished his task,
Harold said casually, “What are
those lizardlike things that wear
black uniforms with silver braid?”

“Dranes.*’ Short-hair turned
around, gazed dully at the prisoner.
His face was heavy, muscular, his
eyes small, his forehead low. “We
calls 'em Dranes.”

“Yes, but what are they?”

“Oh, just another life form. I
guess. From some other planet —
maybe from one called Drane. I
dunno. I used to know, but I’ve
forgotten.”

“You don’t tike them, eh?” sug-
gested Harold.

“Who does?” He frowned with
the unusual strain of thought, his
small eyes shrinking still smaller.
“I like to have ideas of my own,
see? I don’t care for any lizards
reading my mind and telling the
w'orld what I’d sooner keep to my-
self, see? A man wants privacy
— especially sometimes.”

“So they’re telepaths!” It
was Harold's turn to frown,
“Hra-m-m!" He mused anxiously.
The other began to shove his empty
meal trolley toward the door, and
Harold went on hurriedly, “Any of
them hereabouts?”

“No, it’s too late in the evening.
And there ain’t a lot of them on
this planet, thank Pete! Only a
few here. They do some sort of
official work, I dunno what. A
couple of them got important jobs
right in this dump, but they'll be
home now. Good riddance, I says !”
He scowled to show his intense dis-
like of the mysterious Dranes, “A
guy can think what he likes while
they’re away.” He pushed his trol-
ley outside, followed it and dosed
the door. The lock clicked quietly,
ominously.

Harold got on with his meal
while he waited for angry men to
come for him. Beardface and his
two assistants had indicated that
nothing more would be done with
him before morning, but this last
episode would speed things up
considerably. He hastened his
eating, vaguely surprised that he
was getting it finished without
interruption. They were less quick
on the uptake titan he’d antici-

>f ETAMORPBOSITB

IT

pated. He employed the time use-
fully in working out a plan of
campaign.

The apartment made his prob-
lem tough. He’d already given it
a thorough scrutiny, noted that its
decorated walls and doors were all
of heavy metal. The windows were
of armorglass molded in one piece
over metal frames with sturdy,
closely set bars. It was more than
an apartment ; it was a vault.

There was a very tiny lens cun-
ningly concealed in the wall high
up in one corner. It would have
escaped discovery by anyone with
lesser powers of observation. He’d
found another mounted on the stem
of the hour hand of the clock. It
looked like a jewel. He knew it to
be a scanner of some kind, and
suspected that there were others
yet to be found. Where there
were scanners there would also be
microphones, midget jobs hard to
dig out when you don’t want to
make a search too obvious. Oh,
yes, they’d know all about his little
conversation with Short-hair — and
they’d be along.

They were. The lock clicked
open just as he ended his meal.
Helraan came in followed by a huge
fellow in uniform. The latter
closed the door, leaned his broad
back against it, pursed his lips in
a silent whistle while he studied
the room with obvious boredom.
Helman went to a chair, sat in it,
crossed his legs, looked intently at
the prisoner. A vein pulsed in his
forehead and the effect of it was
menacing.

18

He said, “I’ve been on the tele-
vox to Roka. He swears that he’s
never mentioned the Dranes in your
presence. He’s positive that they’ve
never been mentioned or described
in your hearing by anyone on the
ship. Nothing was said about them
by the guards who brought you
here. You’ve seen none in this
building. So how d’you know
about them ?”

“Mystifying, isn’t it?” com-
mented Harold pleasantly.

“There is only one way in which
you could have found out about the
Dranes.” Helman went on. “When
the examiners finished with you in
stage three an assistant pondered
the notion of passing you along to
stage four, but the idea was
dropped for the time being. Stage
four is operated by the Dranes.”
“Really?” said Harold. He af-
fected polite surprise.

“The Dranes were never men-
tioned,” persisted Helman, his hard
eyes fixed on his listener, “but they
were thought of. You read those
thoughts. You are a telepath!”
“And you’re surprised by the
obvious ?”

“It wasn’t obvious because it
wasn’t expected,” Helman retorted.
“On four thousand worlds there
are only eleven truly telepathic
life forms and not one of them
human in shape. You’re the first
humanoid possessing that power
we’ve discovered to date.”
“Nevertheless,” persisted Harold,
“it should have been obvious. My
refusal to co-operate — or my
stubbornness as you insist on call-
ing it — had good reason. I per-

ABTOUNDINQ SCIENCE-FICTION

ceived all the thoughts behind your
questions. I didn’t like them. I
still don’t like them.”

"Then you’ll like even less the
ones I’m thinking now,” snapped
Heknan.

“I don’t,” Harold agreed.
‘‘You’ve sent out a call for the
Dranes, ordered them to come fast,
and you think they’ll be here pretty
soon. You expect them to suck me
dry. You’ve great confidence in
their powers even though you can’t
conceive the full extent of mine.”
He stood up, smiled as Helman un-
crossed his legs with a look of sud-
den alarm. He stared into Hel-
man’s black eyes, and his own
were sparkling queerly. "I think,”
he said, "that this is a good time
for us to go trundle our hoops —
don’t you?”

"Yes,” Helman murmured.
Clumsily he got to his feet, stood
there with an air of troubled pre-
occupation. "Yes, sure!”

The guard at the door straight-
ened up, his big hands held close
to his sides. He looked inquiringly
at the vacant Helman. When Hel-
man failed to respond, he shifted
his gaze to the prisoner, kept the
gaze fixed while slowly the alert-
ness faded from his own optics.

Then, although he’d not been
spoken to, he said hoarsely, “O.K.,
we’ll get along. We’ll get a move
on.” He opened the door.

The three filed out, the guard
leading, Helman in the rear. They
moved rapidly along the corridors,
passing other uniformed individuals
without challenge or comment until

they reached the main hall. Here,
the man in myrtle green, whose
little office held the levejr control-
ling the automatic doors, sat at his
desk and felt disposed to be
officious.

“You can’t take him out until
you’ve signed him out, stating
where lie’s being taken, and on
whose authority,” he enunciated
flatly.

"On my authority,” said Helman.
He voiced the words in stilted tones
as if he were a ventriloquist’s
dummy, but the officious one failed
to notice it.

"Oh, all right,” he growled. He
shoved a large, heavy tome to one
end of his desk. “Sign there.
Name in column one, destination in
column two, time of return in
column three.” He looked at the
huge guard who was watching
dumbly, emitted a resigned sigh,
inquired, "I suppose you need a
car ?”

"Yes,” said Helman mechani-
cally.

The official pressed a button; a
sonorous gong clanged somewhere
outside the building. Then he
pulled his tiny lever; the great
doors swung open. The trio
strolled out with deceptive .casual-
ness, waited a moment while the
doors closed behind them. It was
fairly dark now, but not completely
so, for a powdering of stars lay
across the sky, and a steady glow
of light emanated from the
surrounding city.

Presently a jet car swept around
one end of the building, stopped
before them. The three got in.

METAMOHPHOSITE

10

Harold sat at the back between
Helman and the big guard, both of
whom were strangely silent, rumina-
tive. The driver turned around,
showed them a face with raised
eyebrows.

“Downtown,” uttered Helman
curtly.

The driver nodded, faced front.
The car rolled toward the gates in
the distant wall, reached them, but
they remained closed. Two men in
green emerged from the shadow of
the wall, focused light beams on the
vehicle’s occupants.

One said, “Inquisitor Helman,
one specimen — I guess it’s O.K.”
He waved his light beam toward the
gates which parted slowly and
ponderously. Emitting a roar
from its jets, the car swept through.

They dropped Harold Harold-
Myra in the mid-southern section
of the city where buildings grew
tallest and crowds swarmed thick-
est. Helman and the guard got out
of the car, talked with him while
the driver waited out of earshot.

“You will both go home,” Har-
old ordered, “remembering nothing
of this and behaving normally.
Your forgetfulness will persist until
sunrise. Until you see the sun you
will be quite unable to recall any-
thing which has occurred since you
entered my room. Do you under-
stand ?”

“We understand.”

Obediently they got back into the
car. They were a pair of automa-
tons. He stood on the sidewalk,
watched their machine merge into
the swirl of traffic and disappear.

The sky was quite dark now, but
the street was colorful with lights
that shifted and flickered and sent
eccentric shadows skittering across
the pavement.

For a few minutes he stood
quietly regarding the shadows and
musing within himself. He was
alone — alone against a world. It
didn’t bother him particularly. His
situation was no different from that
of his own people who formed a
solitary world on the edge of a great
Empire. He’d one advantage which
so far had stood him in good stead :
he knew iiis own powers. His oppo-
nents were ignorant in that respect.
On the other hand, he suffered the
disadvantage of being equally
ignorant, for although he’d learned
much about the people of the Em-
pire, he still did not know the full
extent of their powers. And theirs
were likely to be worthy of respect.
Alliance of varied life forms with
varied talents could make a formi-
dable combination. The battle was
to be one of homo superior versus
homo sapiens plus the Dranes plus
other things of unknown abilities
— with the odds much in favor of
the combine.

Now that he was foot-loose and
fancy-free he could appreciate that
guard’s argument that there’s no
point in being free unless one
knows where to nurse one’s free-
dom. The guard, though, had im-
plied something and overlooked
something else. He’d implied that
there were places in which free-
dom could be preserved, and he’d
forgotten that escapees have a
flair for discovering unadvertised

ASTOUNDING SCIENCE-FICTION

sanctuaries. If his own kind were
half as wise and a quarter as crafty
as they ought to be, thought Har-
old, the tracing of such a sanctu-
ary should not be difficult.

He shrugged, turned to go, found
himself confronted by a tall, thin
fellow in black uniform with sil-
ver buttons and silver braid. The
newcomer’s features were gaunt
and tough, and they changed color
from gold to blood-red as the light
from a nearby electric sign flickered
over it.

Harold could hear the other’s
mind murmuring, “Queer, out-
landish clothes this fellow’s wear-
ing. Evidently a recent importee
— maybe a specimen on the lam/*
even as the thinker’s mouth opened
and he said audibly, “Let me see
your identity card!”

“Why ?” asked Harold, stalling
for time. Curse the clothes — he'd
not had time to do anything about
them yet.

“It’s the regulation,” the other
returned irritably. “You should
know that every citizen must pro-
duce his card when called upon to
do so by the police.” His eyes
narrowed, his mind - spoke silently
but discernibly. “Ah, he hesitates.
It must be that he doesn’t possess
a card. This looks bad!'* He took
a step forward.

Harold’s eyes flamed with an odd
glow. “You don’t really want to
see my card?” he said gently. “Do
you ?”

The policeman had a momentary
struggle with himself before he
answered, “No ... no ... of course
not!”

“It was just your mistake?”

“Just my mistake!” admitted the
other slowly. His mind was now
completely muddled. A random
thought, “ He’s dangerous !” fled
wildly through the cerebral maze,
pursued, outshouted and finally
silenced by other, violently imposed
thoughts saying, “Silly mistake. Of
course he’s got a card. I interfere
too much’’

With shocking suddenness, an-
other thought broke in, registering
clearly and succintly despite the
telepathic hubbub of a hundred
surrounding minds. “By the Blue
Sun , did you catch that, Gaetaf A
fragment of hypnotic projection!
Something about a card. Turn the
car round!”

A cold sweat beaded on Harold’s
spine, he closed his mind like a
trap, sent his sharp gaze along the
road. There was too great a flood
of cars and too many swiftly
changing lights to enable him to
pick out any one vehicle turning in
the distance. But he’d know that
car if it came charging down upon
him. Its driver might be of human
shape, but its -passengers would be
lizardlike.

Machines whirled past him four,
five and sometimes six abreast.
The eerie voice which had faded
suddenly came back, waxed strong,
faded away again.

It said, “I might be wrong, of
course. But I’m sure the amplitude
was sufficient for hypnosis. No, it’s
gone now— I can’t pick it up at all.
All these people make too much of
a jumble on the neural band!”

Another thought, a new one, an-

MBTAMORPHOSITB

21

swered impatiently, “Oh, let it pass,
you're not on duty now . If we
don’t — ” It waned to indiscemi-
bility.

Then the policeman's mind came
back, saying. “Well, why am I
standing here like a dummy? Why
was I picking on this guy ? It
must’ve been for something! I
didn’t stop him for the fun of it —
unless I’m scatty!”

Harold said quickly and sharply,
“You didn’t stop me. I stopped
you. Intelligence Service — remem-
ber?”

“Eh?” The cop opened his
mouth, closed it, looked confused.

“Wait a moment,” added Harold,
a strong note of authority in his
voice. He strained his perception
anxiously. A river of surrounding
thoughts flowed through his mind,
but none with the power and clarity
of the invisible Gaeta and his alert
companion. Could they, too, close
their minds ? There wasn’t any way
of telling !

He gave it up, returned his atten-
tion to the cop, and said, “Intelli-
gence Service. I showed you my
official warrant. Good heavens,
man, have you forgotten it al-
ready?”

“No.” The man in black was
disconcerted by this unexpected
aggressiveness. The reference to
a nonexistent Intelligence Service
warrant made his confusion worse
confounded. “No,” he protested,
“I haven’t forgotten.” Then, in
weak effort to make some sort of a
come-back. “But you started to say

22

something, and I’m waiting to hear
the rest.”

Harold smiled, took him by the
arm. “Look, I’m authorized to
call upon you for assistance when-
ever needed. You know that,
don’t you ?”

“Yes, sure, but—”

“What I want you to do is very
simple. It's necessary that I change
attire with a certain suspected
individual and that he be kept o'ut
of circulation overnight. I’ll point
him out to you when he comes
along. You’re to tell him that
you’re taking him in for interroga-
tion. You’ll then conduct us some-
where where we can change clothes,
preferably your own apartment if
you’ve got one. I’ll give you fur-
ther instructions when we get
there.”

“All right,” agreed the cop. He
blinked as he tried to rationalize his
mind. Thoughts gyrated baffiingly
in his cranium. ‘‘Not for you to
reason why. Do your duty and
ask no questions. Let higher-ups
take the responsibility. This guy’s
got all the authority in the world — ■
and he knows what he’s doing.”
There was something not quite
right about those thoughts. They
seemed to condense inward instead
of expanding outward, as thoughts
ought to do. But they were power-
ful enough, sensible enough, and he
wasn't able to give birth to any
contrary ideas. "All right,” he
repeated.

Studying the passers-by, Harold
picked a man of his own height and
build. Of all the apparel stream-
ing past, this fellow’s looked made

ASTOUNDING SCIENCE-FICTION

to fit him to a nicety, He nudged
the cop.

"That’s the man,”

The officer strode majestically
forward, stopped the victim, said,
"Police! I'm taking you in for
interrogation.”

"Me?” The man was dum-
founded. “I’ve done nothing!”

"Then what've you got to worry
about?”

"Nothing,” hastily assured the
other. He scowled with annoy-
ance, "I guess I’ll have to go.
But it’s a waste of time and a
nuisance,”

"So you think the Empire’s busi-
ness is a nuisance ?” inquired
Harold, joining the cop.

The victim favored him with a
look of intense dislike, and com-
plained, "Go on, try making a case
against me. Having it stick will be
something else!”

"We’ll see!”

Cutting down a side street, the
trio hit a broad avenue at its far-
ther end. No cars here; it was
solely for pedestrians. The road
was divided into six moving strips,
three traveling in each direction,
slowest on the outsides, fastest in
the middle. Small groups of
people, some chatting volubly, some
plunged in boredom, glided swiftly
along the road and shrank in the
distance. A steady rumbling sound
came from beneath the rubbery
surface of the road.

The three skipped onto an outer
slow strip, thence to the medium
fast strip, finally to the central
rapid strip. The road bore them
ten blocks before they left it. Har-

old could see it rolling on for at
least ten blocks more.

The cop’s apartment proved to be
a modernistic, three-roomed bache-
lor flat on the second floor of a tall,
graystone building. Here, the cap-
tive started to renew his protests,
looked at Harold, found his opin-
ions changing even as he formed
them. He waxed co-operative,
though in a manner more stupefied
than willing. Emptying the con-
tents of his pockets on a table, he
exchanged clothes.

Now dressed in formal, less
outlandish manner, Harold said to
the police officer, "Take off your
jacket and make yourself at home.
No need to be formal on this
job. We may be here some time
yet. Get us a drink while I tell
this fellow what’s afoot.” He
waited until the cop had vanished
into an adjoining room, then his
eyes flamed at the vaguely dis-
gruntled victim, "Sleep!” he com-
manded, "sleep!”

The man stirred in futile opposi-
tion, dosed his eyes, let his head
hang forward. His whole body
slumped wearily in its chair.
Raking rapidly through the per-
sonal possessions on the table,
Harold found the fellow’s identity
card. Although he’d never seen
such a document before, he wasted
no time examining it, neither did
he keep it. With quick dexterity,
he dug the cop’s wallet out of his
discarded jacket, extracted the
police identity card, substituted the
other, replaced the wallet. The
police card he put in his own pocket.

METAMORPHOSITB

23

Way back on the home planet it
was an ancient adage that double
moves are more confusing than
single ones.

He was barely in time. The cop
returned with a bottle of pink, oily
liquid, sat down, looked dully at
the sleeper, said, “Huh?” and trans-
ferred his lackluster stare to Har-
old. Then he blinked several times,
each time more slowly than before,
as if striving to keep his eyes open
against an irresistible urge to keep
them shut. He failed. Imitating
his captive, he hung his head — and
began to snore.

“Sleep,” murmured Harold,
“sleep on toward the dawn. Then
you may awake. But not be-
fore !”

Leaning forward, he lifted a
small, highly polished instrument
from its leather case beneath the
policeman’s armpit. A weapon of
some sort. Pointing it toward the
window, he pressed the stud set in
its butt. There was a sharp, hard
crack, but no recoil. A perfect
disk of glassite vanished from the
center of the window. Cold air
came in through the gap, bringing
with it a smell like that of roasted
resin. Giving the weapon a grim
look, he shoved it back into its hol-
ster, dusted his fingers distaste-
fully.

“So,” he murmured, “discipline
may be enforced by death. Verily,
I’m back in the dark ages !”

Ignoring the sleepers, he made
swift search of the room. The
more lie knew about the Empire’s
ordinary, everyday citizens the bet-
24

ter it’d be for him. Knowledge
— the right knowledge — was a
powerful arm its own right. His
people understood the value of
intangibles.

Finished, he was about to leave
when a tiny bell whirred somewhere
within the wall. He traced the
sound as emanating from behind a
panel, debated the matter before
investigating further. Potential
danger lurked here; but nothing
ventured, nothing gained. He slid
the panel aside, found himself
facing a tiny loudspeaker, a micro-
phone, a lens, and a small, circular
screen.

The screen was alive and vivid
with color, and a stern, heavily
jowled face posed in sharp focus
within its frame. The caller raked
the room with one quick, compre-
hending glance, switched his atten-
tion to Harold.

“So the missing Guarda is in
disposed,” he growled. “He slum-
bers before a bottle. He awaits
three charges: absent from duty,
improperly dressed, and drunk!
We'll deal with this at once.” He
thinned his lips. “What is your
name and the number of your iden-
tity card, citizen?”

“Find out,” suggested Harold.
He slammed the panel before the
tiny scanner could make a perma-
nent record of his features — if he
had not done so already.

That was an unfortunate episode :
it cut down his self-donated hours
of grace to a few minutes. They’d
be on their way already, and he’d
have to move out fast.

He was out of the apartment and

ASTOUNDING SCIENCE FICTION

the building in a trice. A passing
car stopped of its own accord and
took him downtown. Its driver
was blissfully unaware of the
helplessness of his own helpful-
ness.

Here, the city seemed brighter
than ever mostly because the deeper
darkness of the sky enhanced the
multitude of lights. A few stars
still shone, and a string of colored
balls drifted high against the back-
drop where some unidentifiable
vessel drove into space.

He merged with the crowds still
thronging the sidewalks. There
was safety in numbers. It’s hard to
pick one guy out of the mob. espe-
cially when he’s dressed like the
mob, behaves like the mob. For
some time he moved around with
the human swarm though his move-
ments were not as aimless. He
was listening to thoughts, seeking
either of two thought-forms, one
no more than slightly helpful, the
other important. He found the
former, not the latter.

A fat man wandered past him
and broadcast the pleasurable
notion of food shared in large com-
pany. He turned and followed the
fat man, tracking him along three
streets and another moving avenue.
The fat man entered a huge restau-
rant with Harold at his heels. They
took an unoccupied table together.

Plenty of active thoughts here.
In fact the trouble was that there
were far too many. They made
a constant roar right across the tele-
pathic band ; it was difficult to sep-
arate one from another, still more

difficult to determine who was
emanating which. Nevertheless, he
persisted in his effort to sort out
individual broadcasts, taking his
food slowly to justify remaining
there as long as possible. Long
after the fat man had left he was
still seated there, listening, listening.
There were many thoughts he found
interesting, some revealing, some
making near approach to the notions
he sought, but none quite on the
mark, not one.

In the end, he gave it up, took
his check from the waiter. It was
readily apparent what the waiter had
on his mind, namely, this crazy stuff
called money. Roka had told him
a lot about money, even showing him
samples of the junk. He remem-
bered that Roka had been dum-
founded by his ignorance concern-
ing a common medium of exchange.
With amusing superiority, the
worthy lieutenant had assumed that
Harold’s people had yet to discover
what they’d long since forgotten.

There had been some of this
money — he didn’t know just bow
much— in the pockets of this suit,
but he’d left it all with the suit’s
hapless donor. There wasn’t any
point in snatching someone else’s
tokens. Besides, having managed
without it all his life he wasn’t go-
ing to become a slave to it now.

He paid the waiter with nothing,
putting it into the fellow’s hand
with the lordly air of one dispens-
ing a sizable sum. The waiter
gratefully accepted nothing, put
nothing into his pocket, initialed
the check, bowed obsequiously.
Then he rubbed his forehead, looked

MBTAMOEPHOSITB

vague and confused, but said
nothing. Harold went out.

It was on the sidewalk Harold
made the contact he was seeking,
though not in the manner he’d ex-
pected. He was looking for a
mutinous thinker who might lead
him to the underworld of mutinous
thinkers. Instead, he found a
friend.

The fellow was twenty yards
away and walking toward him with
a peculiarly loose-jointed gait. He
was humanoid in all respects but
one — his skin was reptilian. It was
a smooth but scaly skin of silvery
gray in which shone an underlying
sheen of metallic blue. The pupils
of his eyes were a very light gray,
alert, intelligent.

20

Those eyes looked straight into
Harold's as they came abreast, a
flood of amity poured invisibly from
them as he smiled and said in an
undertone, “Come with me." He
walked straight on, without a pause.
He didn’t look back to see whether
Harold followed.

Harold didn’t wait to consider the
matter. This was a time for quick
decision. Swiveling on one heel
he trailed along behind the speaker.
And as he trod warily after the
other, his mind was active with
thoughts, and his thinking was done
within a mental shell through which
nothing could probe.

Evidently the scaly man was an
outsider, a product of some other
world. His queer skin was proof
of that. There were other factors,

ASTOUNDING SCIBNCB-FICTION

too. He hadn’t read Harold’s mind
— Harold was positive of that — yet
in some strange, inexplicable way
he’d recognized a kinship between
them and had acknowledged it with-
out hesitation. Moreover, he was
strolling along with his mind wide
open, but Harold was totally un-
able to analyze his thoughts. Those
thoughts, in all probability, were
straightforward and logical enough,
but they oscillated in and out of the
extreme edge of the neural band.
Picking them up was like trying
to get frequency modulation on a
receiver designed for amplitude
modulation. Those thought-forms
might be normal, but their wave-
forms were weird.

Still not looking back, the sub-
ject of his speculations turned into
an apartment building took a levi-
tator to the tenth floor. Here he
unlocked a door, gazed around for
the first time, smiled again at his
follower, motioned him inside.

Harold went in. The other closed
the door after him. There were
two similar entities in the apart-
ment. One sat on the edge of a
table idly swinging his legs; the
other lounged on a settee and was
absorbed in a magazine.

“Oh, Melor, there’s a — ” began
the one on the settee. He glanced
up, saw the visitor, grinned in
friendly fashion. Then his expres-
sion changed to one of surprise, and
he said, “By the everlasting light,
it’s you! Where did you find him,
Melor?”

This one’s mind was fully as
baffling and Harold found himself
unable to get anything out of it.

The same applied to the being
perched upon the table : his thoughts
wavered in and out of the border-
line of detection.

“I found him on the street,” re-
plied the one called Melor, “and
I invited him along. He has a most
attractive smell.” He sat down, in-
vited Harold to do likewise. Look-
ing at the one on the settee, he went
on, “What did you mean by, ’Oh,
it’s you 1 ? D’you know him?”

“No.” The other switched on a
teleset at his side. “They broadcast
a call for him a few minutes ago.
He’s wanted — badly.” He moved a
second switch. “Here’s the record-
ing. Watch I”

The set’s big screen lit up. A
sour-faced man in flamboyant uni-
form appeared on the screen, spoke
w’ith official ponderousness.

“All citizens are warned to keep,
watch for and, if possible, appre-
hend an escaped specimen recently
brought from the Frontier. Name :
Harold Harold-Myra. Descrip-
tion — ” He went on at great length,
giving everything in minute detail,
then finished, “His attire is notice-
ably unconventional and he has not
yet been provided with an identity
card. Citizens ■should bear in mind
that he may possess attributes not
familiar to Empire races and that
he is wanted alive. In case of neces-
sity, call Police Emergency on Stud
Four. Here is his likeness.”

The screen went blank, lit up
again, showed Harold’s features in
full color. He recognized part of
his former prison in the background.

MBTAUOBPHOSITB

27

Those* midget scanners had done
their job!

"Tush!” scoffed the being on the
settee. He switched off, turned to
Harold. “Well, you're in good
hands. That’s something. We
wouldn’t give anyone in authority
a magni-belt to hold up his pants.
My name’s Tor. The one indus-
triously doing nothing on the table
is Vern. The one who brought you
here is Melor. Our other names
don’t matter much. As maybe
you’ve guessed, we aren’t of this
lousy, over-organized world. We’re
from Linga, a planet which is a devil
of a long way off, too far away for
my liking. The more I think of it,
the farther it seems.”

“It's no farther than my own
world,” said Harold. He leaned
forward. “Look, can you read my
mind ?”

“Not a possibility of it," Tor an-
swered. “You’re like the local breed
in that respect — you think pulsat-
ingly and much too far down for
us. Can you read ours?”

“I can’t. You wobble in and out
of my limit." He frowned. “What
beats me is what made Melor pick
me out if he can’t read my
thoughts.”

“I smelled you,” Melor put in.

“Huh?”

“That’s not strictly correct, but
it’s the best way I can explain it.
Most of the Empire’s peoples have
some peculiar faculty they call a
sense of smell. We don’t possess it.
They talk about bad odors and sweet
ones, which is gibberish to us. But
we can sense affinities and opposi-
tions, we can sort of ‘smell’ friends

and enemies, instantly, infallibly.
Don’t ask me how we do it, for how
can I tell you?”

“I see the difficulty," agreed
Harold.

“On our world," Melor continued,
“most life forms have this sense
which seems peculiar to Linga.
We’ve no lame animals and no wild
ones — they’re tame if you like them,
wild if you don't. None would be
driven by curiosity to make close ap-
proach to a hunter, none would flee
timidly from someone anxious to
pet them. Instinctively they know
which is friend and which is enemy.
They know it as certainly as you
know black from white or night
from day,”

Tor put in, “Which is an addi-
tional reason why we’re not very
popular. Skin trouble’s the basic
one, d’you understand? So among
an appalling mixture of hostile
smells we welcome an occasional
friendly one — as yours is.”

“Do the Dranes smell friendly?"

Tor pulled a face. “They stink !’’
he said with much emphasis. Gaz-
ing ruminatively at the blank tele-
vision screen, he went on, “Well,
the powers-that-be are after your
earthly body, and I’m afraid we
can’t offer you much encouragement
though we’re willing to give you all
the help we can. Something like
twenty specimens have escaped in
the last ten or twelve years. All
of them broke loose by suddenly dis-
playing long-concealed and quite
unexpected powers which caught
their captors by surprise. But none
stayed free. One by one they were
roped in, some sooner than others.

ASTOUNDING SC 1 E NOB -FICTIO N

You can’t use your strength with-
out revealing what you’ve got, and
once the authorities know what
you’ve got they take steps to cope
with it. Sooner or later the fugitive
makes a try for his home planet —
and finds the trappers waiting.”

“They’re going to have a long,
long wait,” Harold told him, “for
I’m not contemplating a return to
my home world. Leastways, not
yet. What’s the use of coming all
the way here just to go all the way
back again?”

“We took it that you hadn’t much
choice about the coming,” said Tor.

“Nor had I. Circumstances made
it necessary for me to come. Cir-
cumstances make it necessary for
me to stay awhile.”

The three were mildly surprised
by this phlegmatic attitude.

“I’m more of a nuisance here,”
Harold pointed out. “This is the
Empire’s key planet. Whoever
bosses this world bosses the Empire.
It may be one man, it may be a small
clique, but on this planet is the mind
or minds which make the Empire
tick. I’d like to retime that tick.”

“You’ve some hopes !” opined Tor
gloomily. “The Big Noise is
Burkinshaw Three, the Lord of
Terror. You’ve got to have forty-
two permits, signed and counter-
signed, plus an armed escort, to get
within sight of him. He’s exclu-
sive!”

“That’s tough, but the situation
is tougher.” He relaxed in his chair
and thought awhile. “There’s a
Lord of Terror on every planet.

isn’t there? It’s a cockeyed tittaj
for the bosses of imperial freedom !*^

“Terror means greatness, superior \
wisdom, intellect of godlike quality,” 1
explained Tor.

“Oh, does it ? My mistake ! We
use the same-sounding word on my
planet, and there it means fear.”
Suddenly a strange expression came
into his face. He ejaculated, “Burk-
inshaw! Burkinshaw! Ye gods!”

“What’s the matter?” Melor in-
quired.

“Nothing much. It’s only that
evidence is piling up on top of a
theory. It should help. Yes, it
ought to help a lot.” Getting up,
he paced the room restlessly. “Is
there an underground independence
movement on Linga ?” he asked.

Tor grinned with relish, and said,
“I’d not be far from the truth if I
guessed that there’s such a move-
ment on every planet excepting this
one. Imperially speaking, we’re all
in the same adolescent condition:
not quite ripe for self-government.
We’ll all get independence tomor-
row, but not today.” He heaved a
resigned sigh. “Linga’s been get-
ting it tomorrow for the last seven
hundred years.”

“As I thought,” Harold com-
mented. “The same old set-up.
The same old stresses, strains and
inherent weaknesses. The same
blindness and procrastination.
We’ve known it all before— it’s
an old, old tale to us.”

“What is?” persisted the curious
Melor.

“History,” Harold told him.

Melor looked puzzled.

“There’s an ancient saying,”

METAMORPHOSITS

Harold continued, “to the effect that
the bigger they corhe the harder they
fall. The more ponderous and top-
heavy a structure the riper it is for
toppling.” He rubbed his chin,
studied his listeners with a peculiar-
ly elfish gaze. “So the problem is
whether we can shove hard enough
to make it teeter.” ‘

“Never!” exclaimed Tor. “Nor
a thousand either. It’s been tried
times without number. The triers
got buried — whenever there was
enough to bury.”

“Which means that they tried in
the wrong way, and/or at the wrong
time. It’s up to us to push in the
right way at the right time.”

“How can you tell the right
time ?”

“I can’t. I can choose only the
time which, when everything’s taken
into account, seems the most favor-
able — and then hope that it’s the
right time. It’ll be just my hard luck
if I’m wrong.” He reflected a mo-
ment, then went on, “The best time
ought to be nine days hence. If
you can help me to keep under cover
that long, I’ll promise not to involve
you in anything risky in the mean-
while. Can you keep me nine days ?”
“Sure we can.” Tor regarded
him levelly. “But what do we get
out of it other than the prospect of
premature burial?”

“Nothing except the satisfaction
of having had a finger in the pie.”
“Is that all?” Tor asked.

“That’s all,” declared Harold
positively. “You Lingans must fight
your way as we're fighting ours.
If ever my people help you, it will
be for the sake of mutual benefit

3ft

or our own satisfaction. It won’t
be by way of reward.”

“That suits me.” Tor said flatly.
“I like good, plain talk, with no
frills. We’re tired of worthless
promises. Count us with you to the
base of the scaffold, but not up the
steps — we’d like to indulge second
thoughts before we mount those!”
“Thanks a lot,” acknowledged
Harold gratefully. “Now here are
some ideas I’ve got which — ”

He stopped as the television set
emitted a loud chime. Tor reached
over, switched on the apparatus. Its
screen came to life, depicting the
same uniformed sourpuss as before.

The official rumbled, “Urgent
call! Citizens are warned that the
escaped specimen Harold Harold-
Myra, for whom a call was broad-
cast half an hour ago, is now known
to be a telepath, a mesman, a seer
and a recorder. It is possible that
he may also possess telekinetic
powers of unknown extent. Facts
recently brought to light suggest
that he’s a decoy and therefore
doubly dangerous. Study his like-
ness ; he must be brought in as soon
as possible.”

The screen blanked, lit up again,
showed Harold’s face for a full
minute. Then the telecast cut off.

“What does he mean, a seer and
a recorder?” inquired Harold, mys-
tified.

“A seer is one who makes moves
in anticipation of two, three, four
or more of his opponent’s moves.
A chessmaster is a seer.”

“Heavens, do they play chess here,
too ?”

ASTOUNDINO SCIENCE-FICTIOIS*

‘'Chess is popular all over the Em-
pire. What of it?”

“Never mind,” said Harold.
“We’ll stick the fact on top of the
pile. Go on.”

“A recorder,” explained Tor, “is
someone with a photographic mem-
ory. He doesn’t write anything
down. He remembers it all, ac-
curately. in full detail.”

“Humph ! I don’t think there’s
anything extraordinary about that.”
“We Lingans can’t do it. In fact,
we know of only four life forms
that can.” Respect crept into Tor’s
snake-skinned face. “And do you
really have telekinetic power as
well ?”

“No. It’s a false conclusion to
which they’ve jumped. They ap-
pear to think I’m a poltergeist or
something — goodness only knows
why.” He mused a moment. “May-
be it’s because of that analysis in
stage three. I can control my heart
beats, my blood pressure, my
thoughts, and I made their analyti-
cal apparatus go haywire. They can
get out of it nothing but contradic-
tory nonsense. Evidently they sus-
pect that I sabotaged its innards by
some form of remote control.”
“Oh!” Tor was openly disap-
pointed.

Before any of them could venture
further remark, the television set
called for attention and Sourpuss
appeared for the third time.

“All nonnative citizens will ob-
serve a curfew tonight from mid-
night until one hour after dawn,” he
droned. “During this period the
police may call at certain apart-
ments. Any nonnative citizens

METAMORPH08ITB

found absent from their apartments
and unable to give satisfactory rea-
son therefor, or any nonnative citi-
zens who obstruct the police in the
execution of their duty, will be dealt
with in accordance with pan-plane-
tary' law.” He paused, stared out
of the screen. He looked bellicose.
“The fugitive, Harold Harold-
Myra, is in possession of identity
card number AMB 307-40781, en-
tered in the name of Robertus Bron.
That is all.”

“Bron,” echoed Harold. “Bron
. . . Burkinshaw . . . chessmasters.
Dear me !”

The three Lingans were apprehen-
sive, and Melor ventured, “You can
see their moves. One : they’re satis-
fied that by now you’ve found a hid-
ing place. Two : they know you’re
hiding with outsiders and not with
natives. Since there aren’t more
than sixty thousands of outsiders
on this planet, sharing one third
that number of apartments, it’s not
impossible to pounce on the lot at
one go.” His forehead wrinkled
with thought. “It’s no use you flee-
ing elsewhere because this curfew is
planet-wide. It covers everywhere.
I reckon your easiest way out would
be to hynotize a native and stay in
his apartment overnight. If, as they
say, you’re a niesman, it should be
easy.”

“Except for one thing.”

“What is that?”

“It’s what they expect me to do.
In fact, it’s what they’re trying to
make me do.”

“Even so,” persisted Melor,
“what’s to stop you?”

ax

"The routine. A master race al-
ways has a routine. It’s drilled into
them ; it’s part of their education.
Having been warned that a badly
wanted specimen is on the loose
and about to bolt, they will take the
officially prescribed precautions.”
He grinned at them reassuringly,
but they didn't derive much comfort
from it. “I can only guess what
that routine will be, but I reckon
it’ll include some method of adver-
tising my presence in a native’s
apartment even though its occupant
is helpless. Scanners coupled to the
Police Emergency system and
switched in by the opening of a
floor, or something like that. When
f take risks, I pick my own. It’s
asking for trouble to let the opposi-
tion pick ’em for you.”

“Maybe you’re right,” agreed
Melor. “We do know that local
people have certain facilities denied
to outsiders.”

“Now if a couple of cops come
along to give this place a look over,
and I take control of their minds
and send them away convinced that
I’m just another Lingan, the powers-
that-be will have been fooled, won’t
they ?”

“I hadn’t thought of that,” put in
Tor. He was disgusted with his
own lack of imagination. “It was
so obvious that I didn’t see it.”

“So obvious,” Harold pointed out,
“that the authorities know that’s
just what would occur should they
find me here.”

“Then why the curfew and the
search ?”

“Bluff!” defined Harold. “They
hope to make me move or, failing

32

that, put scare into those harboring
me. They’re banging on the walls
hoping the rat will run. I won’t
run ! With your kind permission,
I’ll sit tight.”

“You’re welcome to stay,” Tor
assured. “We can find you a spare
bed, and if you — ”

“Thanks !” Harold interrupted,
“but I don’t need one. T don’t
sleep.”

“You don’t!” They were dmn-
founded.

“Never slept a wink in my life.
It’s a habit we’ve abandoned." He
walked around the room, studying
its fittings. “Impatience is the curse
of plotters. Nothing bores me more
than waiting for time to ripen. I've
simply got to wait nine days. Are
you really willing to put up with
me that long or, if not, can you find
me some place else?”

“Stay here,” said Tor. “You re-
pay us with your company. We
can talk to each other of homes be-
yond reach. We can talk about the
freedom of subject peoples and of
things it is not wise to discuss out -
side. It is sweet to dream dreams.
It is good to play with notions of
what one might do if only one could
find a way to do it.”

“You’re a little pessimistic,”
gibed Harold.

On the fourth day his idleness
became too much to bear. He went
out, strolled along the streets of the
city. Two more irate broadcasts
had advertised his extended liberty,
but the last of them had been three
days before. Since then, silence.
His trust reposed in the inability

ASTOUNDING SCIENCE -FICTION

of the public to remember that
morning’s broadcast, let alone the
details of the twentieth one before
it, and his confidence was not mis-
placed. People wandered past him
with vacant expressions and pre-
occupied minds. In most cases,
their eyes looked at him without
seeing him. In a few cases, his
features registered, but no signifi-
cance registered with them. The
farther he walked, the safer he felt.

Downtown he found a smart,
modernistic store well stocked with
scientific instruments. This simpli-
fied matters. He’d been trying to
solve the problem of how to get
Melor to shop for him without using
this silly stuff called money. The
Lingan’s respect for it equalled his
own contempt for it, therefore he
couldn’t ask his hosts to spend their
own on his behalf. Instinct rather
than deliberate reasoning had made
him recognize this simple ethic of a
moneyed world.

Boldly entering the store, he ex-
amined its stock. Here were some
things he wanted, others capable of
ready adaption to what he desired.
Different cultures evolved differing
modes of manufacture. Conven-
tional jobs would need alteration to
become conventional according to his
other-worldly notions, but the
simplest tools would enable him to
deal with these. Making a list of
his requirements, he prowled around
until it was complete, handed it to
a salesman.

The latter, a shrewd individual,
looked the list over, said sharply,
“This stuff is for microwave radia-
tion.”

“I know it,” said Harold blandly.

“It is not for sale to the public
except on production of an official
permit,” he went on. Then, stiffly,
“Have you such a permit? May I
see your identity card ?”

Harold showed him the card.

“Ah!” mouthed the salesman, his
manner changing, “the police!” His
laugh was apologetic and forced.
“Well, you didn’t catch me disre-
garding regulations!”

“I’m not trying to catch you. I’ve
come to get some necessary equip-
ment. Pack it up and let me have
it. I’m on urgent business and in
a hurry.”

“Certainly, certainly.” Bustling
to and fro, anxious to placate, the
salesman collected the equipment,
packaged it. Then he made careful
note of the name and number on
Harold’s identity card. “We charge
this to the Police Department, as
usual?”

“No,” Harold contradicted.
“Charge it to the Analysis Division
of the Immigration Department,
Stage Three.”

He had a satisfied smile as he
went out. When the Bearded One
got the bill he could stick it in his
analyzer and watch the meters whirl.
Which reminded him now that he
came to think of it — there didn’t
seem to be an overmuch sense of
humor on this world.

Safely back in the Lingans’ apart-
ment, he unloaded his loot, got
started on it. His hosts were out.
He kept the door locked, concen-
trated on his task and progressed
with speed and dexterity which
would have astounded his former

38

METAMOSPHOSITB

captors. When he’d been at work
an hour the set in the corner chimed
urgently, but he ignored it and was
still engrossed in his task when the
Lingans came in some time later.

Carefully closing and fastening
the door, Melor said, “Well, they’ve
got worried about you again.”

“Have they ?”

“Didn’t you catch the recent
broadcast ?”

“I was too busy,” explained
Harold.

“They’ve discovered that you've
got a police card and not the card
they first announced. They broad-
cast a correction and a further warn-
ing. The announcer was somewhat
annoyed.”

“So’d I be,” said Harold, “if I
were Sourpuss.”

Melor’s eyes, which had been
staring absently at the litter of stuff
on which Harold was working, sud-
denly realized what they saw'.

“Hey, where did you get all that ?”
he asked, with alarm. “Have you
been outdoors?"

“Sure! I had to get this junk
somehow other and I couldn’t
think of how to get it any other
way. I couldn’t wish it into exist-
ence. We’ve not progressed quite
that far — yet!” He glanced at the
uneasy Lingan. “Take it easy.
There’s nothing to worry about. I
was out for less than a couple of
hours, and I might have been born
and bred in this city for all the notice
anyone took of me.”

“Maybe so.” Melor flopped into
a chair, massaged his scaly chin.
Ripples of underlying blueness ran

34

through it as his skin moved. “But
if you do it too often you’ll meet
a cop, or a spaceman, or a Drane.
Cops are too inquisitive. Spacemen
recognize outsiders and rarely for-
get a face. Dranes know too much
and can divine too much. It’s risky.”
He looked again at the litter of ap-
paratus. “What’re you making,
anyway ?”

“A simple contactor.”

“What’s that for?”

“Making contact with someone
else.” Harold wangled an electric
iron into the heart of the mess,
deftly inserted a condenser smaller
than a button, linked it into the cir-
cuit with two dabs of solder. “If
two people, uncertain of each other’s
whereabouts, are seeking each other
within the limits of the same hori-
zon, they can trace each other with
contactors.”

“1 see,” said Melor, not seeing at
all. “Why not make mental con-
tact ?”

“Because the telepathic range is
far too short. Thoughts fade swiftly
within distance, especially when
blanketed by obstacles.”

The three were still watching him
curiously when he finished the job
shortly before midnight. Now he
had a small transmitter-receiver
fitted with three antennae, one being
a short, vertical rod, the second a
tiny silver loop rotatable through
its horizontal plane, the third a short
silver tube, slightly curved, also
rotatable horizonally.

“Now to tune it up,” he told them.

Connecting the set-up to the
power supplies, he let it warm

ASTOUNDING SCIENCE-FICTION

through before he started tuning it
with a glassite screwdriver. It was
a tricky job. The oscillatory circuit
had to be steered a delicate margin
past peak so that it would swing
dead on to resonance when hand-
capacity was removed. And,
strangely enough, hand-capacity was
greater on this planet. The correct
margin had to be discovered by trial
and error, by delicate adjustment
and readjustment.

He manipulated the tuning with
fingers as firm and sensitive as any
surgeon’s. His jawbone ached.
Tuning the set onward, he took his
hand away. The circuit swung short.
He tried again and again. Eventu-
ally he stood away from the appa-
ratus, rubbed his aching jaw in
which dull pain was throbbing,
switched off the power.

“That’ll do,’’ he remarked.

“Aren’t you going to use it now ?”
Mdor inquired.

“I can’t. Nobody’s looking for
me yet.”

“Oh!” The trio were more
puzzled than ever. They gave it up
and went to bed. *

Putting away his apparatus,
Harold dug a book on ancient his-
tory out of the Lingans’ small but
excellent library, settled himself
down to the fourth successive night
of self-education. There was dyna-
mite in these books for those who
had eyes to see. No Lord of
Terror had seen them in the light
in which he saw them !

The ninth day dawned in manner
no different from any other. The
sun came up and the Empire’s boss

MBTAMORPHOSITB

city stirred to officially conducted
life.

When Melor appeared, Harold
said to him, “I believe that this is
your free day. Have you any plans
for it?”

“Nothing important. Why?”

“The fun starts today, or ought
to start if my calculations are cor-
rect. I could do with your help.”

“In what way?”

“You’re going to be mighty use-
ful if I come up against someone
who can control his thoughts or
shield them entirely. Hatred or ani-
mosity aren’t thoughts— they’re
emotions of which antagonistic
thoughts are born. You Lingans
respond to such emotions. You can
go on reading the heart long after
the mind is closed to me.”

“I get the point but not the pur-
pose,” confessed Melor.

“Look,” said Harold patiently,
“when I say the fun starts I don’t
mean that there’s going to be whole-
sale violence. We’ve found better
ways. It’s possible, for instance,
to talk oneself into anything or out
of anything provided one says the
right things to the right person at
the right time. The waving blade
hasn’t half the potency of the wag-
ging tongue. And the tongue isn’t
messy.” He smiled grimly. “My
people have had more than their
fill of messy methods. We don’t
bother with them these days. We’re
grown up.”

“So?” prompted Melor.

“So I need you to tell me how
I’m doing if, mayhap, I’m working
on someone with a dosed mind.”

“That’s easy. I could tell you

AST— 2L 85

when hatred, fear or friendliness
intensifies or lessens by one degree.”

“Just what I need,” enthused
Harold. “My form of life has its
shortcomings as well as its talents,
and we don’t let ourselves forget
it Last time some of us forgot it,
the forgetters thought themselves a
collective form of God. The delu-
sion bred death!”

His tongue gently explored a back
tooth as his gaze went to the trans-
mitter-receiver waiting at one side
of the room.

Nothing happened until midday.
The two kept company through the
morning, the fugitive expectant and
alert, his host uneasy and silently
speculative. At noon the television
set chimed and Melor switched it on.

Helman came on the screen, fie
stared straight at the watching pair
in manner suggesting that he saw
them as clearly as they saw him.
His dark features were surly.

“This is a personal broadcast for
the benefit of the specimen known
at Harold Harold-Myra,” Helman
enunciated, “or to any citizen illegal-
ly maintaining contact with him.
Be it known, Harold Harold-Myra,
that a summary of all the available
data on your world type has been
laid before the Council of Action,
which Council, after due considera-
tion thereof, has decided that it is
to the essential interest of the Em-
pire that your life form be extermi-
nated with the minimum of delay.
By midday tomorrow an order will
be sent to appropriate war vessels
requiring them to vaporize your
native planet — unless, in the mean-
time, you have surrendered your-

self and provided new evidence
which may persuade the Council of
Action to reconsider its decision.”
Helman stopped, licked his lips.
His air was that of one still nursing
a severe reprimand.

He went on, “This notification
will be rebroadcast in one hour’s
time. Watchers in touch with the
fugitive are advised to bring it to
his attention as this will be the last
warning.” His surliness increased
as he finished, “In the event of his
prompt surrender, the Council of
Action will extend gracious pardon
to those who have been harboring
this specimen.”

The screen blanked.

“Mate in one move,” said Melor
glumly. “We told you that it was
a waste of time to sit and plot.
They get ’em all, one way or an-
other.

“It’s check — and your move.”
“All right then — what’s your
move ?”

“I don’t know yet. We’ve still
got to wait. I f you sit by the chim-
ney long enough, Santa Claus comes
down.”

“In the name of the Blue Sun,
who is Santa Claus?” asked Melor
peevishly.

“The man with a million lollies.”
“Lollies ?”

“Things you lick.”

“Oh, cosmos !” said Melor. “What
madman wants to own a million
things to lick? Is this anything to
do with your sermon about wagging
tongues? If so, we’re licked!”
“Forget it,” Harold advised. “I
talk in riddles to pass the time.”
A pain suddenly pulsed in his

ASTOUNDING SCIENCE-FICTION

jawbone. It brought an exclama-
tion from him which stirred the
nervous Melor. Putting two fingers
into his mouth, Harold unscrewed
the crown of a back molar, took it
out, put it on the table. A tiny
splinter of crystal glittered within
the base of the crown. The crystal
was fluorescent. Melor gaped at
it fascinatedly.

Swiftly powering the transmitter-
receiver, Harold let it warm up. A
faint, high-pitched whistle crept into
its little phone. He swung the loop
slowly while the whistle strength-
ened, then weakened, finally laded
out. Slightly offsetting the loop to
bring back the signal, he pressed a
stud. The note grew stronger.

“That side,” he murmured, indi-
cating the face of the loop nearest
to the watching Melor.

Returning the loop to fade-out
position, he switched in the trans-
mitter, swung its curved tube an-
tenna until it paralleled the direc-
tion faced by the receiver’s loop.
Again he offset the loop, and the
signal returned. He waited ex-
pectantly. In a little while, the sig-
nal broke into three short pips then
resumed its steady note. He flipped
his transmitter switch three times.

For half an hour the two sat
and waited while the whistle main-
tained itself and gave triple pips
at regular intervals. Then, sudden-
ly, it soared up in power and gave
one pip.

Carefully, Harold repeated all the
rigmarole with the antenna, this
time obtaining a different direction.
Three pips came as his reward, and

38

again he switched his transmitter in
acknowledgment. Another long
wait. Then, slowly, weakly and dis-
tantly, a voice crept into his mind.

“A blue car. A blue car.”

Going to the window, he looked
down into the street. From his
height of ten floors he had a clear
view extending several blocks in
both directions. He found a score
of automobiles on the street, half
a dozen of them blue.

“Stop, step out , get in again,” he
thought. He repeated the mental
impulse, driving it outward with
maximum intensity.

A car stopped, a human shape
got out, looked around, stepped back
into the vehicle. It was a blue car.

Harold crossed the room, discon-
nected the contactor, and returned
to the window. Looking down-
ward, he thought powerfully.

“I believe I've got you. Drive
on slowly . . . slowly . . . here you
are . . . stop there 1 The building
immediately on your right. Ten
floors up.”

He continued to keep watch as
the car pulled in by the opposite
sidewalk. Two men emerged from
it, crossed the road with casual non-
chalance, disappeared beneath him.
No other cars halted, nobody fol-
lowed the men into the building.

A voice reached him strongly.
"Are tve dragging anything?”

“ Not that I can see.”

“Good!”

Melor said plaintively, “I know
that you’re communitcating with
someone. Santa Claus, I presume?
How you can read each other’s
toothache is a mystery to me.”

ASTOUNDING SCIENCE-FICTION

“Our throbs are no worse than
your wobbles.”

“You bounce around,” said Melor,
“and, according to you, we dither.
Some day we’ll come across some
other life form which spins around
in circles, like a mental dervish. Or
even an entity capable of logical
reasoning without thought at all; a
sort of Bohr-thinker who skips
straight from premise to conclusion
without covering the intervening
distance.” His eyes found the crys-
tal still on the table, noted that it
had ceased to glow. “Better plant
your key-frequency back in your
face before somebody sets it in a
ring.”

Harold smiled, took up the crys-
tal, screwed it back into place.
Opening the door, he looked out
just as the pair from the car arrived
on the landing. He beckoned them
in, locked the door behind them, in-
troduced them to the Lingan.

“This is Melor, a friend from
Linga. Melor, meet George
Richard-Eve and Burt Ken-
Claudette.”

Melor looked askance at the new-
comers’ neat space uniforms and the
silver comet insignia glittering on
their epaulettes. He commented,
“Well, they smell as good as they
look bad. You’ll produce a pally
Drane next!”

“Not likely!” Harold assured.

Burt sat down, said to Harold,
“You know the locals by now. Are
they crafty enough to have drawn a
bead on that transmission and, if so,
how long d’you think they’ll give
us? If time's short, we can beat

it in the car and delay matters a
little.”

"They know how I got the stuff,
where I got it, and its purpose, and
they’re not too dopey to listen out,”
Harold replied. “As I guess, I give
them half an hour.”

"That’ll do.”

Melor put in, “Talk mentally if
it suits you better. I don’t mind.”
“You’re in this,” Harold told him,
“so we’ll talk vocally. You’re en-
titled to listen.” He turned to Burt.
“What’s cooking?”

“There’s fun and games on four
out of the five. The fth proved use-
less for our purpose: it held noth-
ing but a few time-serving bureau-
crats on high pay. But four should
do, I reckon.”'

“Go on.”

"All the appointed ones have
gone beyond and the first of them
ought to have reached their destina-
tions by now. It’s six days to the
nearest system, so they’ve a good
margin.” He smoothed his dark
hair, looked reminiscent. “ Nemo
is due to pop off any moment now.
That was a tough job! We took
forty people off it, but had to scour
the place from end to end to find
the last pair of them. We got ’em,
though. They’ve been dumped in
safety.”

“Good !”

“This has been an education,”
Burt went on. “Better than going
to the zoo. There’s an under-
ground message system on number
three, for instance, which has to
be seen to be believed. By ‘under-
ground’ they mean ten thousand

METAMORPHOSITB

39

feet up! How d’you think they
do it ?”

“I’ve no idea,” said Harold.

“With birds! Among the minor-
ity life forms there is one which is
beaked and feathered. They talk
with birds. They chirrup and
squawk at them, and every bird
understands what’s said.”

“Orniths,” informed Melor.
“They came originally from Gronat,
the Empire’s eight hundredth con-
quest; They’re scattered around
and there are a few of them here,
maybe a dozen or so. When you've
had time to tour the Empire you’ll
find it contains even stranger forms.
And the humanoids don’t even dis-
like them all.”

“It would seem that the human-
oids don’t even like each other
much,” Burt commented. “To
most of them, a brother from a
neighboring planet is a foreigner.”

“Still in the schoolkid stage,”
said Harold. “Rah-rah and all
that.”

Burt nodded and continued, “As
you know, we’ve had to move too
fast in too little time to put over
anything really drastic, but what’s
been done ought to be enough to
show what could be done — which is
all that matters.” A faraway look
came into his eyes. “When we
triumphantly cast our bread upon
the waters we little thought it’d
,come back — all wet.”

“So you’ve found confirmation
of that?”

“Plenty,” Burt replied. “Have
you ?”

“Any amount of it.” Harold
went to the bookshelf, selected a

40

heavy tome titled “The Imperial
Elect.” He skimmed through its
pages, found an illustration, showed
it to Burt. “Look!”

“Phew!” said Burt.

“The Budding Cross,” breathed
George, looking over Burt’s shoul-
der. “And the Circle of Infinity!”

“That shelf is crammed with
stuff,” Harold told them as he re-
placed the book, “I’ve been going
through it like a man in a strange
dream.” He came back, sat down.
“Anything more to report?”

“Not much. Jon has stayed on
number three. He had a stroke of
luck and got at the Lord, a fat per-
sonage named Amilcare. Tempo-
rarily, His Eminence doesn’t know
which shoe is on which foot.”

Harold opened his mouth to com-
ment, closed it without saying any-
thing. His mental perception
perked up, listened intently. Burt
and George listened likewise. Melor
began to fidget. For the first time,
Harold noticed that a fringe of fine
hairs lay along the rims of the
Lingan’s ears, and that these hairs
were now fully extended and quiver-
ing.

“There’s a stink of hostility,”
complained Melor uneasily. In his
lithe, loose-jointed gait, he went to
the window.

A hubbub lay across the ether,
a confused mixture of thoughts
from which it was impossible to
extract more than odd, disjointed
phrases.

“Line ’em across that end . . .
rumble, rumble . . . yes, take the
ground door . . . rumble, buzz, buzz

ASTOUNDING SCIENCE -FICTION

. . . work upward . . . rumble . . .
fen of you . . , look out for , . .
rumble , . . they may be , .

“I expect visitors,” remarked
George, easily. He joined Melor at
the window.

The others followed, and the four
looked down at the street. Tt v. as
a hive of activity. A dozen cars
were drawn across one end, block-
ing it completely. Another dozen
jockeyed for position to block the
opposite end. Cars plugged 7 the
three side streets in between. Some-
thing invisible droned steadily over-
head ; it sounded like a squadron of
helicopters. More than two hun-
dred black-uniformed men were
scattered along the sidewalk in little
groups.

“Their bearings must have been
rough,” Burr pulled a face at the
cohort below, "it got them this
section of the street but not the
building. I'd be ashamed of such
a sloppy job.”

•‘It’s good enough,” Harold an-
swered. He filtered the telepathic
surge once again. It was entirely
human, involuntary and nonrecep-
tive. “We could go down and save
them some bother, but I’m a bit
curious about those butterfly minds
clown there. Surely they’d have
brought something potent along
with them.”

“Test it,” suggested Burl.

Dropping their mental shields, the
three let their thoughts flow forth
bearing a perfect picture of their
location. Instantly the hubbub was
overwhelmed by an alien mind
which imposed itself upon the ether.

It was clear, sharp, penetrating, am!
of remarkable strength.

"They’re in that building there!
Ten doors high ! Three of them
and a Ling an. They contemplate
no resistance /”

“A Drane!” said Harold.

It was impossible to locate the
creature amid the mass of men and
automobiles beneath, neither could
he sense its general direction for,
having said all it considered essen-
tial, it had closed its mind and its
powerful impulse was gone.

“judging by the throb, there was
a Drane down there,” offered Melor
belatedly. “Did you hear it? I
couldn’t understand what it said.”
“It got us fixed. It identified
your erratic thought-flow and said
that a Lingari was with us.”

"And what are we going to do
about it? Do we stand like sheep
and wail to be taken away?”

“Yes,” Harold informed.

Melor's face registered approach-
ing martyrdom, but he offered no
further remark.

There wasn't an immediate re-
sponse to the Drane’s revelation.
For reasons unknown to the
watchers, a short time-lag inter-
vened. It ended when a car roared
along the street with a silver-
spangled official bawling orders
from its side window. As one
man, the uniformed clusters made
a determined rush for the front
entrance of the building.

It was Melor who opened the
door and admitted a police captain
and six men. All seven wore the
strained expressions of people

MET A M OR P HO SITE

41

called upon to deal with things un-
imaginable, and all seven were
armed. Little blasters, similar to
the one Harold had found so ob-
jectionable, were ready in their
hands.

The captain, a big, burly man,
but pale of face, entered the room
with his blaster held forward, and
gabbled hastily through his pre-
pared speech.

“Listen to me, you four, before
you try any tricks. We’ve reversed
the controls on theao guns. They
Hay safe while they're gripped but
go off immediately our hands loosen
— and hypnosis causes involuntary
relaxation of the muscles which you
can't prevent!" He swallowed hard.
“Any clever stunts will do no more
than turn this place into a shambles.
In addition, there are more men out-
side, more on every floor, more in,
the street. You can’t cope with
the lot!”

Smiling amiably, Harold said,
“You tempt us to persuade you to
toss those toys out of the window,
and your pants after them. But
we want to talk to the Council of
Action and have no time for amuse-
ment. Let’s go."

The captain didn’t know whether
to scowl or look relieved. Cau-
tiously he stood to one side, his gun
held level, as the four filed out
through the door. The escorts
were equally leery. They sur-
rounded the quartet, but not too
closely, bearing themselves with the
air of men compelled to nurse
vipers to their bosoms.

As they marched along the land-
ing toward the levitators Burt

42

nudged the nearest guard and de-
manded, “What’s your name?”

The fellow, a lanky, beetle-
browed individual, was startled and
apprehensive as he answered, “Walt
Bron."

“Tutl” said Burt.

The guard didn’t like that “tut."
His brows came down, his small
eyes held a stupefied expression as
his mind said to itself, “Why should
he want my name? Why pick on
me? I ain't done him any harm.
What's he up to now?”

Burt smiled broadly and his own
mind reached out to George’s and
Harold’s, saying, “Something has
got them worried, though the
higher-ups aren't likely to have told
them much.”

“ Yes — it looks as if there’s irri-
tation in influential circles and the
cops got bawled out in consequence.
Evidently news is coming through.”
Pause. “Did you feel any probe?”
“No.”

“Neither did we. That Drane
must have gone” Pause. “Pity
we can't talk with Melor this way .
He's walking behind like a fatalist
pacing to certain death.” Pause.
“Got plenty of guts, the way he’s
taken us on trust.”

“Yes — but we'll look after him!”
They reached the levitators. The
entire landing was now solid wi.th
armed police and a number of them
were pressing eagerly into the de-
serted apartment, intent on thor-
ough search.

Herded into a levitator, the cap-
tured quartet and their escort of
seven crammed it to capacity. The
glassite doors slid shut. The burly

ASTOUNDING SCIBNCB-FICTION

captain pressed a button and the
levitator soared smoothly upward
while its occupants watched the
rising indicator with offhand inter-
est. They stopped at the twenty-
seventh floor.

The captain didn’t permit the
doors to open. He stood with his
attention fixed upon the indicator
while slowly his beefy face changed
color. Suddenly, he rammed his
big thumb on the ground-level but-
ton and the levitator shot down-
ward.

Harold: “Who did that?”

Burt : “M e. 1 couldn’t resist it.”
Then, vocally, and loudly, “I didn’t
notice any guns go off. Did you?”

The other captives grinned. The
captain glared at the up-flying shaft
but said nothing. The escort’s un-
easiness registered more openly on
their faces.

A veritable guard of honor had
lined up between the front entrance
and the waiting car. About sixty
guns were held in readiness on
either side — in flat disregard of the
fact that one had only to start
something and let the fire of one
rank bring down half the opposite
rank, thus providing plentiful com-
pany in death.

The four got into the car, and
its driver, a thin featured, pessi^"
mistic individual, looked even less
happy for their arrival. He had
a cop for company in front. The
car blew its jets and started off
with half a dozen cars leading and
a full dozen following. It was a
cavalcade worthy of the year’s best
burial, and its pace was suitably

funereal as it wended its way
through a succession of side streets
to the outskirts of the city. A
thousand feet above them a helicop-
ter and two gyros drifted along,
carefully following every bend and
turn on their route.

The destination proved to be an
immense, needlelike skyscraper, tall,
slender, graceful. It soared majesti-
cally from spacious, well-tended
grounds around which stood a high
wall surmounted by the spidery wir-
ing of a photoelectric telltale sys-
tem. As they swept through the
great gateway, the prisoners caught
a glimpse of the telltale marker-
board in the granite lodge and a
group of heavily armed guards
lounging behind the gates.

“The palace of the Council,”
Melor informed. “This is where
they make worlds and break them —
or so they claim.”

“Be quiet!” snapped the cop in
front. Then, in a high, squeaky
voice, he added, “There are fairies
at the bottom of my garden!”

“Indeed?” said Burt, affecting
polite surprise.

The cop’s sour face whitened.
His grip tightened on his blaster,
forgetting in his emotion that a
stronger hold was supposed to be
ineffective.

“Let him alone, Burt!” thought
Harold.

“I don’t like him,” Burt came
back. “His ears stick out”

“How he smells of fury!” criti-
cized Melor, openly.

Conversation ended as the pro-
cession halted in front of the sky-
scraper’s ornate entrance. The

METAMORPHOSITE

quartet climbed out., paraded
through another wary guard of
honor, entered the building. Here,
more black-uniformed men con-
ducted them two levels below
ground, ushered them into an apart-
ment which, ominously, had a beryl-
lium-steel grille in lieu of a door.
The last man out turned a monster
key in the grille and departed.

Before the inmates had time thor-
oughly to examine their new prison,
an attendant appeared, thrust pack-
aged foods through the bars of the
grille, and told them, “I haven't
got the key and don’t know who has.
Neither can I find out. If you want
anything, call for me, but don’t
think you can make me open up. I
couldn't do it even if I wanted —
which I don't!”

“Dear me,” said Burt, “that's
unkind of you.” Going to the grille,
he swung it open, looked out at the
astounded attendant and continued,
“Tell the Council that we are very
comfortable and appreciate their
forethought. We shall be pleased
to call upon them shortly.”

The attendant’s scattered wits
came together. He took to his heels
as if the breath of death was on his
neck.

“How did you do that ?” de-
manded Melor, his eyes wide. He
ambled loose-jointedly to the grille,
looked at its lock, swung it to and
fro on its hinges.

“The gentleman with the key
locked it, then unlocked it, and
wandered away satisfied that duty
had been done,” Burt released a
sigh. "Life is full of delusions.”
Opening a packet, he examined its

44

contents. “Calorbix!” he said dis-
gustedly, and tossed the package on
a table.

“Here they come,” George an-
nounced.

A horde arrived. They locked
the grille, put two heavy chains
around its end post, padlocked
those. The four watched in amused
silence. A pompous little man, with
much silver braid strewn over his
chest, then tried the grille, shaking
it furiously. Satisfied, he scowled
at the four, went away, the horde
following.

Burt mooched restlessly around
the room. “There are scanners
watching us, microphones listening
to us and, for all I know, some
cockeyed gadget tasting us. I’m
fed up with this. -Let’s go see the
Council.”

“Yes, it’s about time we did,”
George agreed.

“The sooner the better,” added
Harold.

Melor offered no comment. The
conversation of his friends, he de-
cided, oft confusing and seemingly
illogical. They had a habit of go-
ing off at the queerest slants. So
he contented himself with staring
at the grille through which nothing
but some liquid form of life could
pass, while he wondered whether
Tor and Vern had yet been dragged
into the net. He hoped not. It
was better to execute one Lingan
than three.

A minute later the man with the
keys came back accompanied by two
guards and a tall, gray-haired of-
ficial clad in myrtle green. The
badge of the Silver Comet glittered

ASTOUNDING SCIKNCE-FICTION

on the. latter’s shoulder straps. His
keen gaze rested on the warden as
that worthy surlily unlocked the
padlocks, withdrew the chains, freed
the grille.

Then he. said to the four, ‘ Most
remarkable!" He waited for a
response, but none came, so he
carried on. "This warder hasn't
rhe least notion of what he’s do-
ing. As the Council expected, you
influenced him to return and un-
lock the gate. We kept him under
observation. It has been an
interesting demonstration of what
hypnosis can achieve.” His smile
was amiable. "But you didn’t ex-
pect him to return accompanied,
eh r”

"What does it matter?” Harold
answered. “Your brain advertises
that the Council is ready to deal
with us.”

“ 1 waste my breath talking;”
The official made a gesture of
futility. "All right. Come with
me.”

The Council looked small. Its
strength a mere eight, all but two
of them human. They sat at a long
table, the six humans in the middle,
a nonhuman at each end. The
thing on the extreme right had a
'tead like a purple globe, smooth,
shining, hairless, possessing no fea-
tures except a pair of retractable
eyes. Below was a cloaked shape-
lessness suggesting no shoulders
and no arms. It was as repulsive
as the sample on the left was
beautiful. The one on the left had
a flat, circular, golden face sur-
rounded by golden petals, large and

glossy. The head was supported
by a short, fibrous green neck
from the knot of which depended
long, delicate arms terminating in
five tentacles. Two black-knobbed
stamens jutted from the face, and
a wide, mobile mouth was visible
beneath them. It was lovely, like
a flower.

Between rhis table and the
staring captives hung a barrier of
wire. Harold, Burt and George
could see that it was loaded, and
their perceptions examined it gin-
gerly. They diagnosed its purpose
simultaneously : it bore an alter-
nating current imposed upon a
pulsing potential. Two hundred
cycles per second, with a minimum
pressure of tour thousand volts
rising to peak points of seven thou-
sand every tenth cycle.

"// ypnocast jammer!” reported
Burt. He was puzzled. “But
that doesn’t blank neural sprays.
They're different bands. Can von
bear what they’re thinking?”

"Not a thing." answered Harold.
"Neither could I get your thoughts
while you were speaking.”

“I’ve lost contact, too,” put in
George. “Something which isn’t
that screen is droning out a bass
beat note that makes a mess of the
telepathic band.”

Sniffing with distaste, Melor said.
"This is where I come in. I know
what’s the matter. There’s a Drane
in the room. He’s doing it.”

“Are you sure of that?”

“I can sense him.” He pointed
at the flowerlike being on the left.
“Furthermore, Dranes can’t speak.
They’ve no vocal cords. The

46

WKTAMOKPHOS1TK

Florans function .as their inter-
preters — that's why this one's
here.”

One of the humans on the
Council, a bull-headed, heavily
jowled man, leaned forward, fixed
glittering eyes on the four. His
voice was harsh.

“The Lingan is right. Since we
are not assembled to be entertained
by your alien antics, nor to listen
to your lies, but solely for the pur-
pose of weighing fresh truths with
justice and with wisdom, we find
it necessary to employ a Drane.”

So saying, he made a dramatic
gesture. The Floran reached a
tentacled hand down behind the
table, lifted the hidden Drane,
placed it on the polished surface.

Mental visualization, Harold
realized, had proved correct with
regard to shape and appearance but
had misled him in the matter of
size. He’d taken it for granted
that a Drane possessed bulk
comparable with his own. But this
creature was no larger than his fist.
Its very smallness shocked him.

It was lizardlike, but not so
completely as first appeared, and
now that he could see it closely, its
tiny but perfect uniform looked
absurd. While they regarded it,
the thing sat there and stared at
them with eyes like pin points of
flaming crimson, and as it stared
the strange beat note disappeared,
a psychic flood poured through the
screen and lapped around their
minds.

But already the three shields
were up, while the fourth — the
Lingan — felt the force only as an

46

acute throb. The pressure went
up and up ; it was amazing that
such a midget brain could emit so
mighty a mental flow of power. It
felt and probed and thrust and
stabbed, its violence increasing
without abate.

Perspiration beaded the features
of the trio as they gazed fixedly
at the same spot on the Drane ’s
jacket while maintaining their
shields against its invisible as-
sault. Melor sat down, cradled
his head in his arms, began to rock
slowly from side to side. The
Council watched impassively. The
Drane’s optics were jewels of
fire.

“Keep it up,” whispered Harold.
“It’s almost on the boil.”

Like the lizards it resembled, the
Drane’s pose was fixed, unmoving.
It had remained as motionless as
a carved ornament since it had
reached the table, and its baleful
eyes had never blinked. Still its
psychic output went up.

Then, suddenly, it pawed a! its
jacket, snatched the paw away. A
thin wisp of smoke crawled out of
the cloth. The next instant, the.
creature had fled from the table,
the mental pressure collapsing as
its source disappeared. Its sharp,
peaky voice came into their minds
as the thing snaked through a tiny
door, fled along the outer passage.
The voice faded with distance.

" Burning . . . burning . . . burn-

ingf >

The Council member who had
spoken originally, now sat staring
through the screen at the prison-
ers. His hand was on the table.

ASTOUNDING SOIFNCB-FJCTIOff

and his fingers rapped its surface
nervously. The other members
maintained blank expressions. He
turned his head, looked at the
Floran.

“What happened?”

“The Drane said he was burn-
ing,” enunciated the mouth in the
flowerlike heajj. Its tones were
weak, but precise. “His mind was
very agitated. The peril destroyed
his ability to concentrate, and he
had to flee lest worse befall.”
“Pyrotics!” said the Council
member incredulously. “There
are legends of such.” His atten-
tion returned to the captives. “So
you’re pyrotics — fire-raisers !”
“Some of your people can do it
— but don’t know it themselves,”
Harold told him. “They’ve caused
most of any seemingly inexplicable
fires you’ve experienced.” He
made a gesture of impatience.
“Now that we’ve got rid of that
Drane how about giving way to
what’s on your mind? We can
read what is written there, and we
know the next move: you’re to call
Burkinshaw, Helman and Roka,
after which the parley will start.”
Frowning, but making no retort,
the Council member pressed a red
button on his desk. His attitude
was one of expectancy.

In short time, Helman and Roka
entered the room, took seats at the
table. The former’s bearing was
surly and disgruntled. The latter
grinned sheepishly at the quartet,
even nodded amiably to Harold.

One minute after them, Burkin-
shaw Three, the Supreme Lord,

came in and took the center seat.
His awesome name and imposing
title fitted him like somebody else’s
glove, for he was a small, thin man,
round-shouldered, narrow-chested,
with a pale, lined face. His bald-
ing head had wisps of gray hair
at the sides, and his eyes peered
myopically through rimless pince-
nez. His whole appearance was
that of a mild and perpetually pre-
occupied professor — but his mind
was cold, cold.

That mind was now wide open
to the three. It was a punctilious
mind, clear and sharp in form,
operating deliberately and calcu-
latingly through the mixed output
of the other humans at the Coun-
cil table.

Arranging some papers before
him, and keeping his gaze fixed
upon the top sheets, Burkinshaw
spoke in measured, unhurried
tones, saying, “I don’t doubt that
you can read my mind and are
reading it now, but in justice to
the Lingan, who cannot do so, and
for the benefit of my fellows who
are not telepathic either, I must use
ordinary speech.” He adjusted the
pince-nez, turned over a sheet of
paper and continued.

“We, of the Imperial Council of
Action, have decided that the safety
of the Empire demands that we
obliterate the planet known to us
as KX-724 together with any
adjacent planets, satellites or aster-
oids harboring its dominant life
form. We are now met to consider
this life form’s final plea for
preservation, and it is the duty of
each of us to listen carefully to

METAMORPHOSITE

47

r —

. what new evidence may be offered, preme Lord removed his pince-
weighing it not with favor or with nez, polished each lens, clipped
prejudice, but with justice.” them carefully on his nose, stared

Having thus spoken, the Sit- owlishly over their tops at the

48

ASTOUNDING SCIENCE-FICTION

prisoners. His eyes were a very
pale blue, looked weak, but were
not weak.

"Have you chosen vour spokes-
man ?”

Their minds conferred swiftly,
Then Harold said. “I shall speak.”

“Very well then." Burkinshaw
relaxed in his seat. "Before you
commence it is necessary to warn,
you that our grave decision concern-
ing the fate of your people is neither
frivolous nor heartless. In fact, it
was reached with the greatest reluc-
tance. YVe were driven to it by the
weight of evidence and, I regret to
say, additional data which we’ve
recently gained is of a nature
calculated to support our judgment.
Bluntly, your kind of life is a
menace to our kind. The respon-
sibility now rests with you to
prove otherwise — to our satisfac-
tion.”

“And if 1 can’t?” queried Har-
old.

"We shall destroy you utterly.”

"If you can,” said Harold.

The assembled minds reacted
promptly. He could hear them,
aggressive and fuming. The pur-
ple thing exuded no thoughts but
did give out a queer suggestion of
imbecilic amusement. The Flo-
ran’s attitude was one of mild
surprise mixed with interest.

' Burkinshaw wasn’t fazed. "If
we can.” he agreed blandly, while
bis brain held little doubt that they
could. “Proceed in your own
way,” he invited. “You have about
fourteen hours in which to con-
vince us that our decision was
wrong, or impracticable."

“You’ve tempted us into giv-
ing minor demonstrations of our
powers,” Harold began. “The
Drane was planted here for a simi-
lar purpose: you used him as a
yardstick with which to measure
our mental abilities. From your
viewpoint, 1 guess, the results have
strengthened your case and weak-
ened ours. Only the yardstick
wasn’t long enough.”

Burkinshaw refused to rise to rhe
bait. Placing his fingertips to-
gether as it about to pray, he stared
absently at the ceiling, said nothing.
His mind was well disciplined, for
it registered no more than the com-
ment, “A negative point.”

“Let it pass,” Harold went on,
“while 1 talk about coincidences.
On my world, a coincidence is a
purely fortuitous lining-up of
circumstances and either is iso-
lated or recurs haphazardly. Bui
when a seeming coincidence repeats
itself often enough, it ceases to he
a coincidence. You know that, too
— or ought to know it. For ex-
ample, let’s take the once-alleged
coincidence of meteoric phenomena
appearing simultaneously with
earthquakes. It .occurred so fre-
quently that eventually one of your
scientists became curious, investi-
gated the matter, discovered solar-
dynamic space-strain, the very
force which since has been utilized
to boost your astrovessels to supra-
spatial speeds. The lesson, of
course, is that one just can’t dis-
miss coincidences as such when
there are too many of them.”

“A thrust — toward where?”
mused the Floran.

M BT AMOR PH 0 SITE

*«

“No point yet apparent,” thought
Burkinshaw.

“1 don’t like the way he gabbles
said Helman’s-mind uneasily. “He’s
talking to gain time. Maybe the
three of them arc trying to push
something through that screen.
They burned the Drane through it,
didn’t they?” He fidgeted in his
seat. “I don't share B’s faith in
that screen. Curses on Roka and
all the rest of the pioneering crowd
— they’ll be the end of us yet!”

Smiling to himself, Harold con-
tinued, “We’ve found out that the
game of chess is generally known
all over the Empire.”

“Pshaw!” burst out the harsh-
voiced man seated on Burkinshaw's
left. “That’s no coincidence. It
spread from a central source as
anyone with a modicum of intelli-
gence should have deduced.”

“Be quiet, Dykstra,” reproved
Burkinshaw.

“Which source?” Harold asked
him.

Dykstra looked peeved as he re-
plied, “Us! We spread it around.
What of it?”

“We had it long before you
contacted us,” Harold told him.

Dykstra opened his mouth,
glanced at Burkinshaw, closed his
mouth and swallowed hard. Bur-
kinshaw continued to survey the
ceiling.

Harold pursued, “We’ve had it
so long that we don’t know how
long. The same board, same pieces,
same moves, same rules. If you
work it out, you’ll find that that

50

involves a very large number of
coincidences.”

They didn’t comment vocally, but
he got their reactions.

Four of the Council were con-
fused.

“ Surprising , but possible /’ mused
the Flora n.

“What of it, anyway ?” inquired
Dykstra’s mind.

“No point yet apparent,” thought
Burkinshaw coolly.

The purple thing's brain emitted
a giggle.

“Bron,” said Harold. “Walt
Bron. Robertus Bron and umpteen
other Brons. Your directory of
citizens is full of them. My world,
likewise, is full of them, always
coupled with the other parent’s
name, of course, and occasionally
spelled Brown, but pronounced the
same. We’ve also got Roberts and
Walters.” He looked at Helmau.
“I know four men named Hill-
man.” He shifted his gaze to the
Supreme Lord. “And among our
minor musicians is one named
Theodore Burkinshaw-May.”

Burkinshaw removed his stare
from the ceiling and concentrated
on the wall. “I see where he’s go
ing. Reserve judgment until he
arrives.”

“The vessel which brought us
here was named the Fenix , in
characters resembling those of our
own alphabet,” Harold continued.
“And in days long gone by, when
we had warships, there was one
named the Phoenix . We found
your language amazingly easy to
learn. Why? Because one-fifth

ASTOUNDING SCIENCE-FICTION

of your vocabulary is identical with
ours. Another fifth is composed of
perversions of our words. The
remainder consists of words which
you have changed beyond all
recognition or words you’ve ac-
quired from the peoples you've
conquered. But, basically, your
language is ours. Have you had
enough coincidences?"

“Nonsense!” exclaimed Dykstra
loudly. “Impossible !”

Burkinshaw turned and looked
at Dykstra with eyes that were
reproving behind their lenses.
“Nothing is impossible," he contra-
dicted mildly. “Continue," he or-
dered Harold, while his thoughts
ran on, “The pleader is making the
inevitable point — too late.”

“So you can see where I’m go-
ing,” Harold remarked to him.
“Just for one final coincidence,
let me say I was stupid enough to
misunderstand the imperial title. I
thought they called themselves
Lords of Terror. A silly mis-
take.” His voice slowed down.
“Their title is a mystic one rooted
deep in your past. They call them-
selves Lords of Terra!"

“Dear me," said Dykstra, “isn’t
that nice!"

Ignoring him, Harold spoke to
Roka. “You’re awake by now.
Last night something clicked in
your mind and you found yourself
remembering things you didn’t
know you’d forgotten. Do you
remember what my people call their
parent planet?”

“Terra," Roka responded
promptly. “I reported it to the

MBTAMORPHOSITB

Supreme Lord this morning. You
call yourselves Terrestrials."

Dykstra’s heavy face went dark
red, and accusations of blasphemy
were welling within his mind when
Burkinshaw beat him to it.

“This morning’s revised report
of Lieutenant Roka and certain
survivors of his crew now lies be-
fore the Council." He indicated
the papers on the table. "It has
already been analyzed by the po-
lice commissioner, Inquisitor Hel-
nian and myself. We now believe
that the pleader's assertions are
founded in truth and that in
discovering KX.724 we have dis-
covered our long-lost point of
origin. We have found our mother
planet. The Fenix, unknown to
any of us, was homeward bound!"

Half the Council were dum-
founded. The purple creature
was not: it registered that human
rediscoveries were of litle conse-
quence to purple things. The Flo-
ran thought similarly. Dykstra’s
mind was a turmoil of confusion.

“A difference of three light-
years has separated us for two
thousand centuries,” Harold told
them quietly. “In that tremendous
past we’d grown great and venture-
some. We sent several convoys of
colonists to the nearest system four
and a half light-years away. We
never knew what happened to them,
for then followed the final atomic
war which reduced us to wander-
ing tribes sunk lower than savages.
We’ve been climbing back ever
since. The path of our climb has
been very different from yours, for
si

roving particles had done strange
things to us. Some of those things
died out, some were rooted out,
others persisted and made us what
we are today/’

"What are you inquired the
member next to Roka.

"H umanity metamorphosed/'
Burkinshaw answered for him.

"In the awful struggle for life
on new and hostile worlds, you, too,
sank,” Harold continued. “But you
climbed again, and once more
reached for the stars. Naturally,
you sought the nearest system one
and a half light-years away, for
you had forgotten the location of
your home which was spoken of
only in ancient legends. We were
three light-years farther away
than your nearest neighboring sys-
tem. Logically, you picked that
— and went away from us. You
sank again, climbed again, went on
again, and you never came back
until you’d built a mighty Empire
on the rim of which we waited,
and changed, and changed.’’

Now they were all staring at him
fascinatedly. Even Dykstra was
silent, his mind full of the mighty
argosy across the ages. Half of it
was school-book stuff to him, but
not when presented in this new
light.

"Those of you who are of the
Brotherhood of the Budding Cross
know that this is true — that you
have completed the circle and
reached the Scat of Sol.” He
made a swift and peculiar sign.
Two of .his audience responded
automatically.

“It's of little use” Burt's thought

came over strongly. “They’re too
factual ”

“Wait!”

The Council was silent a long
time, and eventually the Floran
said, "All this is very touching-
but how touching will it be when
they take over our .Empire?” T<»
which its mind added. " And we
riorans swap 1 one master for an
other. I am against it-.. Better the
devil you know Hum the devil yon
don’t.”

Resting his thin arms on the
table, Burkinshaw Three blinked
apologetically at the Terrans and
spoke smoothly. “If they knew
what we know, the Empire's
sentimentalists might be against
your destruction. However, tju*
fabric of our cosmic edifice cannot
be sustained by anything so soft as
sentiment. Moreover, the prodi-
gal sons have no intention of
presenting this fatted calf to their
long-lost fathers. Your removal
from the scheme of things appears
to me as necessary as ever — perhaps
even more necessary — and that it
will be patricide makes no differ-
ence to the fact.” His thin, ascetic
face held an ingratiating wish to
please. “1 feel sure that you under-
stand our position. Have you any-
thing more to say r”

“No luck,” whispered Melor.
"The hatred has gone — to be re-
placed by fear.”

Harold grimaced, said to the
Supreme Lord, “Yes, I’d like to
say that you can blast Terra out of
existence, and its system along
with it, but it’ll do you no good.”

ASTOUNDING SCIENCE -FI CT JO S

“We are not under the delusion
that it will do us any good," de-
clared Burkinshaw. “Nor would
we sanction so drastic an act for
such a purpose." He removed his
pince-nez, screwed up his eyes as
he looked at his listeners. “The
motive is more reasonable and
more urgent — it is to prevent
harm."

“It won’t do that, either."

“Why not ?"

“Because you’re too late/'"

“I feared you’d say that."
Burkinshaw leaned back in his seat,
tapped his glasses on a thumbnail.
“If he can’t satisfy me that his
claim is well-based, 1 shall advance
the hour!” Then he said, “You’ll
have to prove that.”

“There’s trouble on four out of
the five* other planets in this sys-
tem. You’ve just had news of it.
Nothing serious, merely some
absenteeism, sabotage, demonstra-
tions, but no violence. It's trouble
all the same — and it could be
worse.”

“There’s always trouble on one
planet or another,” put in Helman
sourly. “When you’re nursing
tour thousand of them, you get
used to unrest.”

“You overlook the significance
of coincidences, I fear. Normal
troubles pop up here and there,
haphazardly. These have come
together. They’ve kept an appoint-
ment in time!”

“We’ll deal with them/’ Helman
snapped.

“I don’t doubt it,” said Harold
evenly. “You’ll also deal with an
uproar in the next system when

you get news of it soon. You’ll
deal with four planets simultane-
ously, or forty planets — simultane-
ously. But four hundred planets
— simultaneously — and then four
thousand ! Somewhere is the num-
ber that’ll prove too much for even
the best of organizations.”

“It’s not possible,” Helman as-
serted stubbornly. “Only two
dozen of you Terrans got here.
Roka told us that. You took over
his ship, substituted two dozen
Terrestrials for part of his crew,
impressed false memories on his
and the others’ minds causing them
to suspect nothing until their true
memories suddenly returned.” He
scowled. The pulse in his fore-
head was beating visibly. “Very
clever of you. Very, very clever.
But twenty-four aren’t enough.”
“We know it. Irrespective of
relative powers, some numbers are
needed to deal with numbers.”
Harold’s sharp-eyed gaze went
from Helman to Burkinshaw. “If
you people are no more and no
less human than you were two hun-
dred thousand years ago — and I
think that your expansive path has
kept you much the same — I’d say
that your bureaucrats still live in
water-tight compartments. So long
as supposedly missing ships fail to
observe the officially prescribed
rigmarole for reporting, it’s taken
that they’re still missing. And,
ten to one, your Department of
Commerce doesn’t even know that
the Navy has mislaid anything.”

It was a tribute to the Supreme
Lord’s quick-wittedness that his
mind was way ahead of his con-

M ETA MORPH O SITE

frcres’, for he acted while they
were still stewing it over. He
switched on the televisor set in the
wall on one side.

Looking at its scanner, he said
sharply, “Get me the Department
of Commerce, Movements Sec-
tion.”

The screen colored, a fat man in
civilian attire appeared. An
expression of intense respect cov-
ered his ample features as he
identified his caller.

“Yes, your excellency?”

“The Navy has reported two
vessels immobilized beyond the
Frontier. They're the Callan and
the Mathra. Have they been re-
corded recently in any movements
bulletins ?”

“A moment, your excellency.”
The fat man disappeared. After
some time, he came back, a puzzled
frown on his face. “Your ex-
cellency, we have those two ships
recorded as obsolete war vessels
functioning as freighters. Their
conversion was assumed by us.
since they are transporting passen-
gers and tonnage. The Callan has
cleared four ports in the Frontier
Zone, Sector B, in the last eight
days. The Mathra departed from
the system of Hyperion after land-
ing passengers and freight on each
of its nine planets. Its destina-
tion was given as external to the
Frontier Zone, Sector- J.”

“Inform the Navy Department,”
Burkinshaw ordered, and switched
off. He was the least disturbed
individual at the table. His man-
ner was calm, unruffled as he spoke
to Harold. “So they’re busily

34

bringing in Terrans or Terrestrials
or whatever v ou call yourselves.
The logical play is to have those
two vessels blown out of existence.
Can it be done?”

“I'm afraid not. It depends
largely upon whether the ships
getting such an order have or have
not already come under our con-
trol. The trouble with warships
and atom bombs and planet-
wreckers is that they’re useful
only when they work when and
where you want them to work.
Otherwise, they’re liabilities.” He
gestured to indicate Burt and
George. “According to my friends,
tlie bomb allocated to Terra is on
the ship Warcat clearing from
your third neighbor. Ask Amil-
care about it.”

It required some minutes to get
the third planet’s Lord on the
screen, and then his image was
cloudy with static.

“Where’s the Warcat ?” rasped
Burkinshaw.

The image moved, clouded still
more, then cleared slightly.
“Gone,” said Atnilcare jovially.
“I don’t know where.”

“On whose authority?”

“Mine,” Amilcare answered.
His chuckle was oily and a little
crazy. “Jon wanted it so I told
him to take it. I couldn’t think of
anything you’d find more gratify-
ing. Don’t you worry about Jon
— I’m looking after him for you.”
Burkinshaw cut him off. “This
Jon is a Terran, I suppose?”

“A Terrestrial,” Harold cor-
rected.

ASTOUNDING SCIENCE-FICTION

"Put a call out for him,” urged
Dykstra irefully. "The police
won’t all be bereft of their senses
even if Amilcare is."

"Let me handle this," Burkin-
shaw said. Then, to Harold,
"What has he done with the
War cat?”

"He’ll have put somebody on it
to control the crew and they’ll be
giving you a demonstration of
what a nuisance planet-wreckers
can be when they drop where they
shouldn’t."

"So your defense is attack?
The bloodshed has started ? In
that case, the war is on, and we’re
all wasting our — ”

“There will be no bloodshed,"
Harold interrupted. "We’re not
so infantile as that. None’s been
shed so far, and none will be shed
if it can be avoided. That’s what
we’re here for — to avoid it. The
fact that we’d inevitably win any
knock-down and drag-out affair
you care to start hasn't blinded us
to the fact that losers can lose very
bloodily.” He waved a hand
toward the televisor. "Check up
with your water-tight bureaucrats.
Ask your astronomers whether
that refueling asteroid of yours is
still circling."

Burkinshaw resorted to the tele-
visor for the third time. All eyes
were on its screen as he said,
"Where is Nemo now?"

“Nemo? Well, your excellency,
at the present moment it is
approaching alignment with the
last planet Drufa and about twenty
hours farther out."

"I’m not asking where it ought

to be! I want to know whether
it’s actually there!"

"Pardon me, your excellency."
The figure slid off the screen and
was gone a long time. When it
returned, its voice crept out of the
speaker hushed and frightened.
"Your excellency, it would seem
that some strange disaster has over-
taken the body. I cannot explain
why we’ve failed to observe — "

“Is it there?” rapped Burkinshaw
impatiently.

"Yes, your excellency. But it is
in gaseous condition. One would
almost believe that a planet-wrecker
had — "

"Enough!" Without waiting to
hear the rest, he switched off.

Lying back in his chair, he
brooded in complete disregard of
the fact that his mind was wide
open to some even though not to
all. He didn't care who picked up
his impressions.

“We may be too late. Possibly
•we zvere already too late the day
Roka came back. At long last
zve’ve fallen into the trap we’ve
alzmys feared, the trap we avoided
when we vaporized that world of
parasites. Nevertheless, we can
still destroy Terra — they can’t
possibly have taken over every
world and every ship and we can
still zvipe her out. But to what
avail? Revenge is sweet only when
it’s profitable. Will it profit us?
It all depends on how many of
these people have sneaked into our
ranks, and hozv many more can get
in before we destroy their base.”

Helman thought, “This is it!
Any fool could tell it had to come

MBTAMOBPHOSITE

58

sooner or later. Every new world
is a risk. We’ve been lucky to get
through four thousand of them
without getting in bad. Well, the
end could have been worse. At
least, these are our own kind and
should favor us above all other
shapes.”

Melor murmured, “Their hale
lias weakened, and their fear turns
to personal worry. Excepting the
Purple One and the Floran. The
Purple One, who was amused, is
how angry. The Floran, who was
interested and amiable, now fears,”

“That’s because we’re not of
their shape. Racial antagonisms
and color antagonisms are as
nothing to the mutual distrust
between different shapes. There
lies the Empire’s weak spot. Every
shape desires mastery of its own
territory. So far as we’re con-
cerned, they can have it.” Harold
commented.

Putting his glasses back on his
nose, Burkinshaw sighed and said,
“Since you intend to take over the
Empire, our only remaining move
is to issue a general order for the
immediate destruction of Terra.
No matter how many confiscated
ships try to thwart my purpose,
obedience by one loyal vessel will
suffice.” His hand reached out
toward the televisor switch.

“We aren’t taking over your
Empire,” Harold told him swiftly.
“Neither do we wish to do so.
We’re concerned only that you
don’t take over our world. All we
want is a pact of noninterference
in each other’s affairs, and the

6 «

appointment of a few Lingans to
act as ambassadors through whom
we can maintain such contact as
suits us. We want to go our own
way along our own path, we've the
ability to defend our right to do so.
and the present situation is our
way of demonstrating the fact. No
more than that. If, peevishly, you
destroy our world, then, tenge-
fully, we shall disrupt your ram-
shackle collection of worlds, not
with our own strength, but by
judiciously utilizing yours! Leave
us in peace and we shall leave you
in peace.”

“Where’s our guarantee of that?”
asked Burkinshaw cynically. "How
do we know that a century of
insidious penetration will not fol-
low such a pact?” He stared at
the four, his blue eyes shrewd and
calculating to a degree not appar-
ent before. “In dealing with us
you’ve been able to use an advan-
tage you possess which Florans.
Lingans. Reth rails and others have
not got, namely, you know us as
surely as you know your own kith
and kin.” He bent forward.
“Likewise, we know you! If you’re
of sound and -ane mind, you’ll
absorb gradually what you can’t
gulp down in one lump. That’s the
way we acquired the Empire, and
that’s the way you'll get it!”

“We’ve proved to you that we
can take it over.” Harold agreed
evenly, “and that is our protection.
Your distrust is the measure of
ours. You’ll never know how
many of us are within vour Empire
and you’ll never find out — but
obliteration of our parent world

ASTOUNDING SCIENCE-FICTION

will no longer obliterate our life
form. We have made our own
guarantee. Get it into your head,
there is no winner in this game.
It's stalemate !” He watched
interestedly as Burkinshaw’s fore-
finger rested light on the switch.
“You’re too late, much too late.
We don’t want your Empire be-
cause we’re in the same fix — we’re
too late.”

Burkinshaw’s eyes narrowed and
he said, “1 don’t see why it’s too
late for you to do what you’ve been
so anxious to prove you can do.”

“The desire doesn’t exist. We’ve
greater desires. It’s because we
have wended ouf way through a
hell of our own creation that we
have changed, and our ambitions
have changed with us. Why
should we care about territorial
conquests when we face prospects
infinitely greater ? Why should
we gallivant in spaceships around
the petty limits of a galaxy when
some day we shall range un-
hampered through infinity? How
d’you think we knew you were
coming, and prepared for you,
even though we were uncertain of
your shape and unsure of your
intentions ?”

“I'm listening,” observed Bur-
kinshaw, his fingers still toying
with the switch, “but all I hear is
words. Despite your many differ-
ences from us, which I acknowl-
edge, the ancient law holds good:
that shape runs true to shape.”

Harold glanced at Burt and
George. There was swift commu-
nion between them.

Then he said, “Time has been
long, and the little angle between
the paths of our fathers has
opened to a mighty span. Our
changes have been violent and
many. A world of hard radiation
has molded us anew, has made us
what you cannot conceive, and you
see us in a guise temporarily suit-
able for our purpose.” Without
warning, his eyes glowed at the
Purple One. “Even that creature,
which lives on life force and has
been sucking steadily at us all this
time, would now be dead had he
succeeded in drawing one thin beam
of what he craves!”

Burkinshaw didn’t bother to
look at the purple thing, but com-
mented boredly, “The Rethran was
an experiment that failed. If he
was of any use, he’d have got you
long before now.” He rubbed his
gray side-hairs, kept his hand on
the switch. “I grow tired of mean-
ingless noises. You are now hint-
ing that you are no longer of our
shape. I prefer to believe the
evidence of my eyes.” His optics
sought the miniature time-recorder
set in a ring on his finger. “If I
switch on, it may mean the end of
us all, but you cannot hypnotize a
scanner, and the scene registered
in this room will be equivalent to
my unspoken order — death to
Terra! I suspect you of playing
for time. We can ill afford fur-
ther time. I give you one minute
to prove that you are now as
different from us as is this Floran
or this Rethran or that Lingan. If
you do so, we’ll deal with this mat-
ter sensibly and make a pact such

MBTAMORPHOSITFj

57

as you desire. If not” — he wag-
gled the switch suggestively — “the
slaughter starts. We may lose—
or we may not. It’s a chance we’ve
got to take.”

The three Terrestrials made? no
reply. Their minds were in com-
plete accord and their response was
simultaneous.

Dykstra sobbed, “Look ! Oh,
eternity, look!” then sank to his
knees and began to gabble. The
purple creature withdrew its eyes
right into its head so that it could

not see. Burkinshaw’s hand came
away from the switch ; his glasses
fell to the floor and lay there, shat-
tered, unheeded. Roka and Hel-
man and the other humans on the
Council covered their faces with
their hands which slowly took on
a tropical tan.

Only the Floran came upright.
It arose to full height, its golden
petals completely extended, its
greenish arms trembling with ec-
stasy.

All flowers love the sun.

THE END.

THE ANALYTICAL LABORATORY

Squeezed out completely last month, the Lab is squeezed to very small compass
this issue, so a fairly simple statement of points is called for. But one comment
is definitely in order : Meihem In Ce Klasrum, by Dolton Edwards, in the
September issue, was obviously a howling success. It’s been reprinted several
times elsewhere, already, in newspapers and other places. But to the reports:

Place

Story

August Issue

Author

Points

1.

Slaves of the Lamp

Arthur Leo Zagat

2.00

2.

Child of the Gods

A. E. van Vogt

3.03

3.

The Cat and The King

.Raymond F. Jones

3.07

4.

The Last Objective

Paul Carter

3.33

5,

Bankruptcy Proceedings E. Mayne Hull

3.41

1.

The Toymaker

September Issue

Raymond F. Jones

2.53

2.

Tie:

Vintage Season

Lawrence O’Donnell

3.00

Evidence

Isaac Asimov

3.00

3.

Slaves of The Lamp

Arthur Leo Zagat

3,33

4.

Blind Time

George 0. Smith

4.13

ASTOUNDING SCIENCE-FICTION

THE

IMPOSSIBLE

PIRATE

BY GEORGE 0. SMITH

Precisely so — impossible. Which was
what made it so hard to catch him! There
wasn't any possible way he could escape—

Lieutenant Jeffries blinked at
his superior. “I appreciate the
compliment,” he said dryly. “For
which thanks. But what happens
if I don't produce?”

His superior, Captain Edwards
of the Solar Police, smiled vaguely.
“I have a dual purpose,” he said.
“First-off, you need a vacation
of sorts. Knowing you as I do,
I know that sheer vacation
would bring about seventeen kinds
of psychoneuroses, some mental
aberrations, and possible revolt.
However, this job is unattached.”
“Unattached?” gasped Jeffries.
“Uh-huh. You have six months
in which to track down, and/ or
procure evidence which will result
in the identification, arrest, and

THE IMPOSSIBLE PIRATE

conviction of the man known as
Black Morgan, the Pirate.”

“I . . . ah—?”

“This is your only order. You
will not be called upon to do any-
thing else for six months. If at
the end of that time you bring
about such evidence, et cetera, you
will be promptly promoted. If
you do not, we will not hold it
against you, for all of us have
tried and all of us have failed.
I’ll not punish a man for failing
to do that which I have been un-
able to do. You're an excellent
officer, Jeffries, and you’ve earned
a rest. You are now on un-
attached duty, and can command
anything that your job requires,
providing your weekly report to
SJ»

this office justifies the expense.”
Jeffries smiled weakly. "Frankly,
you expect me to fail ?”

Captain Edwards nodded. "I
do. But the junketing around will
give you a bit of a rest and the
seeking for this character will keep
your mind alert. So, Lieutenant
Jeffries, go out and catch me Black
Morgan, the Pirate!’’

Jeffries grinned. "And mean-
while I shall also make a landing
on the mythical planet Vulcan, lo-
cate the Gegenschein, and bring
back a covey of Voi maids with
their equally mythical pel, the
Flydrae.”

Edwards laughed. "Yup,” he
said, still chuckling. "Now scat,
because I have work to do.”
Jeffries nodded and saluted geni-
ally. “I’m it,” he said. Then he
turned and left the office.

Captain Edwards looked after
the leaving officer and nodded
paternally. Jeffries was an ex-
cellent officer. He was loyal, ambi-
tious, and zealous. Cases assigned
to him came in after a reasonable
length of time, and they were
sealed shut and glued, down with
ail the neces'sary evidence. Those
cases that were not to go to court,
complete, were those in which the
criminal preferred to shoot it out,
and Lieutenant Jeffries was both
brave and an excellent shot — as
well as being a good strategist.
He’d been working too hard, and
as Edwards said, a real vacation
would have been boring.

The wilLo’-the-wisp known as
Black Matgan, the Pirate, would
give him a vest.

m

Jeffries went home to pack.
Black Morgan was a space pirate
and the place to look for him was
in space. That space piracy was
impossible for divers reasons
seemed to make little difference to
Black Morgan. He did it.

Lieutenant Jeffries made his
plans, knowing the facts. First
was to encounter Black Morgan.
Theorizing how it would be pos-
sible to commit piracy on a ship
traveling at twenty-five hundred
miles per second, running at 3-Gs
constant acceleration would do no
good. It had been agreed im-
possible. Yet Black Morgan
did it.

So Jeffries must first encounter
the villain and then take after him.
With but six months, Jeffries
could not even begin to inspect the
corners of the solar system that
hadn’t been covered before.

But unlike straight hunting, in
which the hunter must locate his
quarry, when hunting rats, you
bait ratlraps and let the rat come
to you.

Accordingly. Lieutenant Jeffries
made a personal call to the Office
of Shipping and requested confiden-
tial data on all shipments of high
value, and then picked out the first.
To add to the certainty* Jeffries
called upon the editor of a
sensation-seeking news agent and
disclosed the fact that he.
Lieutenant Jeffries, was being sent
on the Martian Queen to protect
a shipment of radiosodium.

Then, when the time came.
Lieutenant Jeffries went boldly

ASTOUNDING SCIENCE-FICTION

to the • space line terminal and
embarked.

The first part of the trip was
uneventful. At 3-Gs, the ship’s
velocity mounted swiftly as the
hours passed under the constant
acceleration. Jeffries watched the
crew and the passengers idly, be-
cause all of them had been thor-
oughly investigated before the
ship’s take-off. They were citi-
zens about which there could be
no doubt, and therefore anything
but a cursory watch was un-
necessary. Jeffries divided his
time between the passengers and
the Chief Signal Officer, Jones,
who willingly gave him whatever
information he needed.

At one time, Lieutenant Jeffries
asked Jones why space piracy was
considered so impossible.

“You mean Black Morgan,”
smiled Jones. “Well, space piracy

isn’t impossible excepting the way
he is supposed to do it. Piracy near
either terminal might go off. Bdt
when we’re rattling through space
near mid-course at about two thou-
sand miles per second, how could
it be done?”

“Don’t follow,” objected Jef-
fries.

“First, 3-Gs is about all that
people can stand over any long
period. You can take five sitting
down, and about eight lying on a
pressure mattress, and I’ve heard
of men taking fifteen while im-
mersed in a pressure-pack that
equals the specific gravity of the
human body. But taking even
5-Gs for any length of time will
kill. Even three is a strain for
men who have been raised under
one.”

“Yes?” prompted Jeffries.

“It’s the timing that would stop

61

THE IMPOSSIBLE PIRATE

him,” said Jones. “You can't possi-
bly lie await in space until we
come into detector range because
detector range is about a million
miles. At one thousand miles per
second, that’s offering you one
thousand seconds from extreme
range to zero range and another
thousand from zero range to ex-
treme range on the other side — on
the way out. Two thousand sec-
onds is about thirty-three minutes.
To match our speed in that time
would require an acceleration of
about twenty-five hundred feet per
second, which is approximately
75-Gs. Impossible! Plus the fact
that he would have to lie in space
within a million mile radius of our
course.”

“Supposing he picked up your
trail close to Terra?”

Jones smiled. “If he could de-
tect us, we’d detect him,” laughed
Jones.

“Supposing he had a better
detector.”

“We’re at the theoretical limit of
sensitivity now,” said Jones. “And
we’ve been there for years. The
noise level, thermal agitation in the
set itself, and a horde of other
things limit the ultimate sensitivity
of any detector. And don’t men-
tion noise-eliminators. They aren’t.
You can't stop electrons from rub-
bing one another and that’s that !”
“But—?”

“We— as he may — also use both
pulse-type detectors and aperiodic
receivers. People would have
known that he was following
them.”

“Are you certain?”

Jones laughed. "Look, Lieu-
tenant Jeffries, we’re convoyed.
There were two Solar Guard
spacecraft that took off as we did,
for convoy duty. Their job was
to stick close by us all the way
to Jupiter, right down to the land-
ing on Callisto. Now, they’d 'fol-
low anything that they saw suspi-
cious. That’s first. Secondly,
we’re at about three-quarters of
the way to turnover now — and
neither of the convoys are visible
on the detector nor audible in the
ajieriodic receiver. If, Lieutenant
Jeffries, two Guard ships, bearing
the best in instrument and person-
nel, cannot stay within a million
miles of us when they know our
predicted course, how can you ex-
pect a pirate to barge in upon us
when we’re ramming space above
two thousand miles per second?
Detecting at these distances and at
these velocities brings about a
situation somewhat similar to
Heisenberg’s Uncertainty.”

“Which is far above my police-
man’s mind,” said Jeffries.

“You can detect where the space-
craft Jt'OJ when the transmitted
pulse reached it and was echoed at
X seconds ago. In order to know
where it is, in truth, you must
assume a velocity which you must
get from the same gear. To
assume the velocity, you must know
exactly how far the ship traveled
between pulses, which because of
the fact that the pulses are
transmitted different distances, is
slightly difficult, especially when
the doppler is changing.”

“O. K.,” smiled Jeffries. “So

ASTOUNDING SCIENCE-FICTION

piracy is impossible. Then how
does Black Morgan do it?”

“You know what I think?” said
Jones.

“I'm a mind reader, of course,”
grinned Jeffries.

“Well, I wouldn’t put it above
certain blackguard spacecraft opera-
tors to pirate their own ships and
then put up a large tale about Black
Morgan. Does anybody ever really
know — ?”

“There have been authentic re-
ports, made by reliable witnesses.”

“O. K.,” grunted Jones. “Then
you tell me how it is done!”

“Me?” laughed Jeffries. “I'm
hoping that Black Morgan will tell
me in person.”

Lieutenant Jeffries, although his
very appearance was “policeman,”
did not act the part on this trip.
He was the vacationer, the tourist.
He danced well, considering his
bulk, drank moderately, spoke
quietly and intelligently, and made
friends readily. He was always
handy with his camera when some-
thing interesting went on, and he
borrowed the spacecraft’s dark-
room to prepare the little tri-
dimensional images of his fellow
passengers.

In the latter, Jeffries was well-
liked because he managed to flub
all shots that were unflattering.
Either he overexposed the block, or
he miscalculated the development
time, or he was forced to apolo-
gize for his clumsy fingers in the
dark. At any rate, no pictures
emerged from any shot that might

THE IMPOSSIBLE PIRATE

be viewed with the owner's dis-
taste.

He discussed his project openly,
and there was many an argument
over dinner. He thought, cor-
rectly, that people of honest lives
would be interested in the thoughts
and methods of a policeman and he
talked openly. He had been a
zealous policeman, and his store of
incidents seemed unlimited, and un-
like many, these tales were not all
told with Lieutenant Jeffries as
hero. In order to avoid the per-
sonal pronoun, he often told stories
about himself in the third person,
giving credit to some unknown
member of the force.

And so by the time that the
Martian Queen reached turnover,
Lieutenant Jeffries was well-liked.
He enjoyed this thoroughly, though
in his spare moments he hoped
avidly for Black Morgan.

And, of course, Black Morgan
was inevitable. The ship and its
cargo had been well publicized, as
had been his intent. It was a set-up
generated for Black Morgan, and
any pirate who thought enough of
himself to take on that name would
never deny the challenge.

Black Morgan came a few
hours after turnover. The ship's
personnel and passengers had —
ritualistically — watched the heavens
revolve about their ship and had
enjoyed the captain's dinner imme-
diately afterwards. The skipper
>had treated them with stories of his
own and had explained that it had
been the original intention to serve
the dinner during the turnover, but
all pilots were not as capable as

98

the one they had now, and the
turnover had been known to bef
rough at times — and no space line
liked to have the job oE removing
spilled soup from fifty evening
gowns, let alone the bad publicity.

The dinner was finished, and the
dancing was in full swing when
the alarm bells rang loud and dear
above the pleasant strains of the
music.

The acceleration dropped imme-
diately to 1-G which gave several
people an internal stomach-wrangle
similar to that not enjoyed by the
stopping of a high-speed eleva-
tor.

And there, a half mile from the
Martian Queen, ran another ship.
Tt was black and chromium and
deadly looking because of a triple-
turret of heavy rifles that led the
Martian Queen by exactly enough
to make a perfect hit. Marksman
Jeffries knew it, and so did every-
body who looked.

Signal Officer Jones nudged Jef-
fries. ‘‘There he is,” he said
bitterly.

"No myth, anyway,” grunted
Jeffries.

"Nope.”

"How’d he come up?”

Jones growled in his throat.
"HI never know,” he said sadly.
"One moment, the area was
clean. Next moment, the celestial
globe displayed a large ship, the
detectors went crazy, and here
he was !”

"Here he is, you mean,” came a
heavy reply, and everybody turned
to see the menacing figure stand-
ing in the room, heavy automatics

«4

in either hand. "I thank you for
lining up, ladies and gentlemen.
It makes things so much easier. As
you see. I've your captain under
one of these. I'll not bother shoot-
ing the first one that makes an
offside move. My first shot will
kill the captain. My second will
kill the first officer. I’ll have what-
ever valuables are handy, and then
['ll have that -bipment of radio-
sodium."

"You’ll- ” started Captain Phil-
lips.

"I’ll kill you if you don’t.” gritted
the pirate.

And that was that. Black Mor-
gan knew what he was about, and
he did it neatly and quickly. The
valuables went into a sack and then
they were all herded into a cargo
hold and locked in.

Gravity went off completely,
leaving them floundering in the
room. The heavy shipment of
radiosodium went out with only
inertia to offer resistance.

An hour later, they forced the
door ot the cargo hold and the
ship took up oj>erations again. But
Black Morgan was no longer in
sight. The detector recorder indi-
cated a receding target that must
have been the leaving pirate craft,
but that was all. Despite all
arguments. Black Morgan had
come up, pirated the craft at two-
thousand. three hundred miles per
second , under 3-Gs’ deceleration
from turnover, one hour and twelve
minutes previous.

Yes, it was impossible and every-
body knew that matching such
constants in space could not be

ASTOUNDING SCIENCE -FICTION

done, but Black Morgan had
done it.

There was no merriment for the
rest of the trip.

Back on Terra again, Lieutenant
Jeffries found that he was in dis-
grace. His landing was followed
almost immediately by an official
erder, and with sheer discourage-
ment, Jeffries went to see Captain
Edwards.

“That was a fine display/'
snapped his superior.

“But — ”

“Look, Jeffries. You were sent
forth to do a job. Anything you
wanted we’d furnish. But you
went out with a brass band and a
challenge, and you were taken up
and beaten. Not only that, but we
lost a small fortune in radio-
sodium.”

“I’d hoped to — ”

“Look, Jeffries, a mistake is a
mistake. You laid a trap, and you
also got some sort of evidence, I
presume. That’s fine. But you
also laid yourself wide open to
criticism. It’s the people who are
howling — the people and the offi-
cials of the space lines.”

“But I—”

“You didn’t catch Black Mor-
gan,” grunted Edwards sourly.
“And what do you know about
him?”

“He came up behind us at a
velocity that apparently exceeded
the speed of light, caught us,
robbed us, and then left quietly.”

“Exceeded the speed of light?”
scoffed Captain Edwards.

THE IMPOSSIBLE PIRATE

“According to the recorder, he
did.”

“Yeah, that we know,” grunted
Edwards. “He is always supposed
to. The detector’s repetition-rate
is about one every ten seconds,
permitting ranges up to a million
miles. The close-in detector runs
one per second, and Black Morgan
comes in from maximum range to
close-in range between pulses. He
hits once or twice on the close-in
range — all of which gives defi-
nite evidence that he exceeds
the speed of light. And he is in-
stantly maneuverable ! So he
comes up behind you at a thou-
sand times your velocity and slows
down to match you in micro-
seconds. This ain’t possible — and
everybody knows it!”

“Maybe he knows the answer,”
said Jeffries doggedly.

“Black Morgan has been doing
that trick for eight years,” snapped
Captain Edwards. “During which
time every scientist in the system
has been seeking a means of copy-
ing it in some manner. Now don’t
tell me that one man can think up
a method of space drive that the
rest of the scientific world cannot
even conceive as possible? Method
— hell. They won’t even permit its
being possible, let alone finding a
method. Now — you’re it.”

“I’m — it ?”

Captain Edwards nodded sol-
emnly. “I gave you this jaunt as
a vacation. You boggled it. I’d
not have minded failure. But the
service can’t stand having one of
its men making monkeys out of
everybody. Mere failure was to

88

be expected. But you advertised
for it, wanted it, took it, and then
added the ignominy of having the
space line lose a half a million
dollars worth of radiosodium.”

“So what am I going to get
now?”

“Look,” grunted Edwards, “I’m
forced into this. I’m going to
issue an official report that you are
on the trail of Black Morgan and
that the loss of the radiosodium is
only temporary. You’ll be placed
officially on the case and this time,
Jeffries, you’ll either collect Black
Morgan or you’ll find yourself in
disgrace. Now go out and get him
or you’ll lose your shirt?”

It was bad, admitted Jeffries.
But it got worse as the weeks wore
on. To avoid making futile re-
ports, Jeffries kept on the move,
and every time that he took to
space. Black Morgan hounded
him.

The pirate held up the Callisto
Clipper and took only personal
valuables. He pirated a million
dollars worth of borts — black tool-
diamonds — from the Venus Girl
that Jeffries knew nothing about
until he read it in the paper in
connection with his own name —
mentioned as protector ! Black
Morgan breached the Brunnhilde
of Mars for the sole purpose of
pirating all the liquor and stores
aboard. He stopped the Lundr
Lady to get a replacement for his
own celestial globe, leaving the
ship without a detector for the rest
of the ship, for Black Morgan took

e«

not only the spares, but the oper-
ating equipment as well.

And each time he appeared,
Lieutenant Jeffries was the brunt
of Black Morgan’s perverted sense
of humor. He stole Jeffries’
shoes once and mailed them back
to Ter ran Headquarters. He took
the policeman’s' cigarette lighter
and returned it — engraved with a
taunting message from himself to
the “Pride of the Solar Police.”
And Jeffries rode the space lines
to get away from himself but found
Black Morgan hounding him.

The lieutenant ignored repeated
demands for action, dropping offi-
cial letters in the wastebasket be-
cause he knew what they con-
tained. He avoided his favorite
haunts. He sought out of the way
places, hoping to learn something
about that huge black spacecraft
that came up from behind at the
speed of light and matched velocity
in microseconds. He sought the
counsel of scientists who claimed
it impossible. He read the rosters
of the ships of all ports, and he
sought the manufacturers of space-
craft, hoping to discover one that
might have made the pirate’s ship.
None had— or anything resembling
that description.

For Jeffries took pictures for
some time before he abandoned
his camera in dismay. The fun
he’d had with it now seemed flat
and odious. He sold it in disgust
in a small secondhand store on
Mars. He sold his personal belong-
ings to get money, for his requests
for funds were being viewed with
scorn, and a personal appearance

ASTOUNDING SCIENCE-FICTION

with a request meant more scatli- can not be! Would you like to

ing remarks on his inefficiency. To join me, lieutenant?”

avoid facing his failure, Jeffries Jeffries snarled, and the ship

spent his own money. He changed rang with the sound of Black Mor-

his appearance because the papers gan’s raucous laughter.

printed his picture as a failure That, of course, hit the head-

every time there was piracy. lines. And the next time Black

Morgan came, he said : “Ex-
Black Morgan, on the other Lieutenant Jeffries! Pleased to
hand, was having the time of his meet you! Ensign Jeffries, I’d
life. He said so. Holding the promote you, not reduce you in
entire ship’s body at the point oi rank. Join me?”
his guns, Black Morgan taunted And again that laughter.

Lieutenant Jeffries: “I congratu- It haunted the policeman’s sleep,

late you, lieutenant,” he said. Jeffries set up trap after trap to

“You— i” locate the source of the pirate’s

“Careful. I dislike profanity, information. For it was obvious

I prefer this chase, Lieutenant that Black Morgan was following

Jeffries. I’d have taken only what him around from planet to planet

I needed, but you gave me new for the sole purpose of taunting

life. Now I’m stealing for the fun him. When Jeffries sat in a restau-
o£ jt — and to watch you combing rant, he wondered whether the
space for a ship that — impossibly — man at the next table was Black

THE IMPOSSIBLE PIRATE

AST— 3L

87

Morgan in plain clothing, for the
pirate wore fancy dress and a mask
for his depredations. He watched
men with him in hotel and on the
street; in streetcar and drugstore.
And when he took to space again,
Black Morgan would be there to
taunt him.

Using, his own spacecraft, Jef-
fries paced the space lines ships, and
found that keeping track of one
was impossible. Even taking off
at the same instant and following
their course, known to him, he lost
them after a few hours. He tried
to put himself in the pirate’s shoes,
but lacked the ability to contact any
spacecraft in the depths of space.

Here the taunts were not direct.
After landing, he was informed
again and again that Black Mor-
gan had done this or had said that
for his benefit.

He became known as a curse.
No ship would take off with him
even near — and often they took
him to Venus when a ship was run-
ning to Mars with a valuable cargo.
Black Morgan, he discovered, was
pot multiple. The pirate either hit
his ship or the moneyed one, but
never both.

But he was a marked man,
hounded by the pirate. Eventually
he became known regardless of his
appearance, and he was denied
passage, or even the knowledge of
course, since his presence was
asking for piracy — unless there
was value going elsewhere. But
aside from twice when they actu-
ally did send Jeffries with the
valuables, thus fooling Black Mor-
gan, the space lines decided that

not having him at all was safer and
cheaper in the long run.

Jeffries was — piracy-prone!

Ultimately he was asked for his
resignation, and he gave it. He
was through !

He sat in his apartment for days
after that. Just sat there, think-
ing. He had been set to catch a
pirate, and the pirate had been
uncatchable. Jeffries had even
tried the trick of putting himself
in the pirate’s place, hoping to fol-
low a ship as Black Morgan had,
and thus gain some idea of how it
could be done. That, too, had
failed.

Everywhere was negative evi-
dence. Rated “Inconclusive” by
all men who studied evidence as a
means of extracting fact. Ex-
Lieutenant Jeffries was no scien-
tist ; he was a policeman. He
worked with hard facts always, and
every case had its hidden clues of
concrete fact. They all pointed
out who the criminal was; seldom
did they point conclusively to all
possible suspects and point out
who the criminal was not, save
one. Therefore Jeffries was not
experienced in coping with reams
of negative evidence.

But he knew that he had nothing
but negative evidence upon which
to work. So, blunderingly, he went
to work on the long, arduous
process of elimination.

He wrote down his facts:

Black Morgan’s ship was capable
of exceeding the speed of light
according to data. This was

ASTOUNDING SCIENCE -FICTION

claimed impossible by all who
knew about it and studied it.

Black Morgan, unerringly, was
able to intercept a spacecraft
traveling at twenty-five hundred
miles per second.

Black Morgan was capable of
coining up at a speed exceeding
light, and decelerating to match
the velocity of the ship in a mat-
ter of milliseconds. This would
produce untold decelerative gravi-
ties in the ship — no man could
hope to live and it was doubtful
that any machine could withstand
that treatment. At least, any ma-
chine of the size of a spaceship.

Black Morgan owned a large
spacecraft of marked design. No
spacecraft construction company
had made it, and the construction
of spacecraft is not a small project.
This eliminates the possibility of
small -yard construction and defi-
nitely removes the possibility of
self-construction. Men have made
boats in their basements, and
automobiles in their attics, but no
man has ever built a battleship or
a spacecraft without owning a
huge construction company.

The construction companies had
all been investigated thoroughly.
Black Morgan was not operating
one on the side. He had no connec-
tion large enough to get a craft
built and forgotten about. Be-
sides, there was a fantastic reward
for information of that nature,
enough that any workman would
be a fool to ignore it, and deliber-
ately forget that he had once driven
a rivet into the spacecraft now
known as the Black Morgan.

THE IMPOSSIBLE PIRATE

Then Jeffries reread his state-
ments. They added up to one thing :
Black Morgan did not exist !
Black Morgan was the Impossible
Pirate.

So, he thought, if Morgan does
not exist, then he is a fantasy, a
myth. The only evidence that is
not stnctly negative is the fact
that an armed man enters the
spacecraft in a standard spacesuit
and holds up the passengers .

Instruments do not He, but it is
possible to fudge up a detector.
Either from the inside or exter-
nally. As for items A. B, C, and
the rest, well —

Maybe Black Morgan didn't
exist!

And if Black Morgan did not
exist, cx-Lieutenant Jeffries knew
how to catch him!

Black Morgan felt good. He
permitted a single pang of sorrow
for the hapless Lieutenant Jeffries,
and then discarded the unlucky
man. He looked to his gear,
checked his instruments, and then
inspected the big ship on the
spaceport outside. Take-off was
about ready, he knew, and they
were carrying plenty. Life was
less easy since Jeffries had gone;
while the lieutenant was there, he
was a fair weathervane. save for
twice. . But Jeffries as an indirect
source of information was not
destined to last forever, and now
Black Morgan was reduced to
bribing lower employees, watching
the markets, and tapping die
communications' beams.

fly

He watched, making certain of
his plans, until the ship’s ports
closed. Then he poised and made
ready himself. Then from the
ship’s drivers came that giveaway
glare of violet-actinic light that
seared the eyeballs of he who looked.
The ship trembled slightly, and
lifted at 3-Gs — its acceleration
with respect to Mars was three
Terran G minus the surface gravity
of the Red Planet. It went up,
gaining speed. The actinic glow in-
creased as the distance from ground
increased, and it cast its glare over
the entire spaceport.

Then, unseen against the glare —
he was but a small mote against a
sea of blinding violet — Black Mor-
gan took off.

A-space, the glare died out. It
was an atmosphere-ionization, and
by the time there was no atmos-
phere, Black Morgan was safe.

At turnover, the ship was hailed,
as before. Black Morgan entered
the ship as he had done many times,
looted the passengers and the vault,
made mocking jokes, and left. The
ship went on, its passengers and
crew cowed and beaten.

Black Morgan laughed uproari-
ously.

Again \

He exulted, and^feeling certain of
his future, Black Morgan waited
patiently. An hour — two — and then
he was off toward Terra, laughing
and plotting more piracy.-

Then his alarm rang. Morgan
blinked. A meteor — but no meteor
ever rang the drive detector. That
took energy output !
vo

Morgan snarled and looked out
of his port.

And there he saw a sight that
terrified him. Through his mind
passed the recollection of all the
thousands that had seen a similar
sight, though the markings were
different. Instead of the chromium
and black pirate craft, there rode a
quiet Guardship, big and potent.
Morgan was outgunned, for three
solid turrets of three rifles each
covered his smaller ship in an in-
evadable bracket of heavy fire. Re-
sistance was impossible; he could
not even fight like a cornered rat.
He was forced, if anything, to
suicide. Ignominious suicide, for
there would not even be the chance
to go out fighting.

The space door opened to admit
a single man, clad in the uniform of
the Solar Guard.

Morgan gulped and swore. “Jef -
fries !”

“Right,” snapped the Guardsman.

Morgan grabbed for his guns and
the cabin of the small craft was
filled with the crack-crack of swift
gun fire. Morgan fired once; Jef-
fries twice. Black Morgan missed,
but Jeffries’ first shot shattered the
pirate’s right, wrist. The other gun
dropped out of his hand from shock,
and Jeffries strode up and covered
the beaten pirate.

Jeffries did not return to his ship,
but he took over the pirate’s small
craft and drove it to Terra. He
handed the pirate over to Captain
Edwards with a smile.

“This is he,” he grunted. “And
now what?”

ASTOUNDING SCIENCE-FICTION

“You’ve won,” smiled Edwards.
His pleasure was honest. “If he’s
Black Morgan, you’ve won, and we
can easily hush up any trouble. But
can you prove it ?”

“Sure,” grinned Jeffries. “Cell
him, and then come up to training
school on the roof. This takes
demonstration.”

“O.K.,” smiled Edwards. “It’s
your show.”

Jeffries faced the group of ex-
perts, scientists, and police officials.
At one side of him was the mock-up
of the celestial globe used in train-
ing rookie spacemen. On the table
beside him was a pile of equipment.

“This,” he said, holding up the
equipment, “is familiar. It is a
small detector-pulse receiver. It is
coupled with an attenuator and a

variable delay line, and a minute
re-transmitter. The celestial globe
will show a target approaching the
ship at a velocity exceeding the
speed of light, and will match the
ship’s acceleration, velocity, and
course in microseconds.”

He started his equipment, and
across the celestial globe in three
distant flashes came a flitting target,
to stop short of the ship’s spotter
in the center of the globe. From
the other detecting equipment came
indications and presentations as to
type of drive, size of ship, and wave
bands of the other ship’s radiation.

Jeffries laughed, turning off his
equipment. “When equipment is
very sensitive, in order to collect
information from great distances, a
rather minute transmitter can pro-
duce a heavy target,” he said. “Now,

THE IMPOSSIBLE PIRATE

above the dome of the building —
watch !”

He turned a square box at the
sky and set it going. Black Mor-
gan’s ship came swooping down, to
stand above the observation dome
of the building, its rifles trained on
the men inside. Jeffries turned
dials and the turret turned slowly.
He manipulated another dial and
the big ship turned to face away.
Then it receded and was gone in a
twinkling of an eye.

“Three-dimensional projector,”
Jie growled. “Just what they were
using for moving pictures for a
hundred years. And there’s your
answer !”

Captain Edwards stood up and
nodded. “But look,” he said. “How
did the contact come?”

“Contact?” gritted Jeffries an-
grily. “The louse ! He took off in
a suit as the ship lifted from the
port, and clung to it with his mag-
netics like a flea on a dog until he
had a chance to do his job at high
velocity. Then he would drop off
and radio-control his own ship
which was running free a few mil-
lion miles behind, and destined to
come within a few million miles of
his position. It was set to about
match his speed, and then at that
velocity, to circle and spiral until it
was within his range. There was no
one aboard it, and so he could cram
on gravities until it creaked. I
swear it had on sixty gravities.”

“But you — ?”

“Remember, my hobby is photog-
raphy. Photography itself is a

matter of fantastic illusion. Your
eyes, fallible as any sense, view a
collection of light rays in a certain
pattern and your brain says it is
Uncle Julius. Iconography, when
enlarged to life-size, can produce a
solid image that from a distance
can be mistaken. Iconocinematog-
raphy does not produce a solid image
but establishes a radiating point for
heterodyned light, producing an ap-
parent image that the real thing can
go up and shake hands with — pro-
viding his timing is good, for the
image is unreal.

“So there’s Black Morgan. Since
he could not exist in fact, he did
exist in the interpretation of incom-
plete data. Any man can fudge a
detector by supplying false echoes
from a delayed transponder. Any-
body can project super image of a
spacecraft by iconocinematography.
And a spacesuit is capable of con-
siderable motion of its own, plus
the ability to cling like a leech to
the hull of a ship under acceleration.

“At first I was a bit concerned
about the effect of attacking an
armed ship with an icono image —
but I discovered that Black Mor-
gan’s real ship was as unarmed as
any commerce vessel. He was the
real fantasy!”

Captain Edwards smiled. “A
good man, Jeffries,” he said to his
superiors. “And a good big man
can still take a good little man’s
tricks and turn them against him!”

And Lieutenant Jeffries took a
deep breath. “Now, sir,” he said.
“About that vacation — ?”

THE END.

ASTOUNDING SCIENCE-FICTION

FOR THE PUBLIC

8V BERNARD I. KAHN

Thr story of a doctor of the Lunar Quarantine Sta-
tion and his routine job. And the routine was death —

The laughter was thin, sardonic
and, to bis hypertrophied sense of
mental receptivity of the moment,
acutely painful. Dr, David Mun-
roe walked slowly back to his desk.
It was a ritual to laugh, to accept
such orders with a scornful grin.

The public demanded an insou-
ciant bravery, callous indifference,
perfect self-abasement in those
destined to die for its own interests.
The clerical crew were laughing at
him now. They had to, or they
would experience his own mind-
chilling fear and know the symp-
toms of agonizing frustration.

Dr. David Munroe sat behind his
desk, fingers whitened at their tips
as he clasped and unclasped the
elastic plastic arms of his chair ; his
mind a tight vortex of numbing,
impotent anger. The flow of an-
ger clutching his abdomen was like
the painful waves of a gastric
spasm.

He wanted to scream a defiant
refusal at those powers represent-
ing the public who casually changed
the order of his life and intended
to dispose of its planned process
with such indifference. But he
put the heresy of such thoughts into

FOR Tin? PTJBUIC

7S

the inner deeps of his subconscious
mind. He had been too well
schooled, too artfully conditioned
by these same powers for anything
but the most shallow type of emo-
tional protest. The pain of it was:
he knew it. Knew he could do
nothing.

His thin fingers jabbed ner-
vously at the phone box on his
desk. The blond haired, fatuous
face of his secretary appeared
immediately. “Get the Office of
Industrial Endocrinology.” His
mouth tightened to a narrow ridge
of indignant resentment. “This call
is not for the public. Tell the
Lunar Operator to put the charges
on my bill.”

“Yes sir.” The secretary’s face
was bovinely expressionless. "You
wish to speak to Dr. Roberta Wal-
lace ?”

As she blanketed the phone he
could hear the thin, derisive laugh-
ter of the clerks, heard one of them
saying: “. /. the boss won’t be
alive much longer.”

He stared at the various colored
phones, panels and screens which
brought him visual, vocal contact
with the subsidiary activities of his
quarantine station, as if he had
never seen them before. His fin-
gers caressed the communication
tapes emerging from the desk as if
touching them for the last time.
The metronomic clicking of the
filing cabinet behind him was now
as depressing as a requiem.

By sheer effort of will he chan-
neled his mind into cortico-thalamic
patterns, sought analysis of his
emotional chaos. It wasn’t, he

74

realized, the terror that comes with
the foreknowledge of impending
death which aroused such , high
emotivity. Nor was it the anger in
protest of having to go to Exotic
for the third time, an order which
was in violation of the mores of the
Bureau. He was far too well inte-
grated for such thalamic emotions.
It was the cerebration of the fear
of disease before death.

It was the cold unescapable fact
that by all the laws of chance he
would be diseased before he did
die; and the lack of the knowledge
of what disease it might be, per-
haps a new one, was cause enough
for his cortical unrest.

He leaned back in the softly
padded chair, placed sweaty palms
together, realized he had to adjust
his affairs. He curtained his cold,
black thoughts with reality, won-
dered with a wry sense of humor
to whom he would will his skicar.

The gong of the ope rations voda-
phone erupted sharply into his
mind. His schizoid preoccupation
vanished instantly as he punched
knobs on his phone, brought the
duty officer to focus.

“S. S. Sylvestrus ; PF-704: Inter-
global Lines is standing off request-
ing pratique. Senior Medical
Officer is Dr. Guerdian Lilly :
Professional 32-56-2134. You will
contact the ship and take such ac-
tion as is necessary for the pub-
lic.”

Dr. Munroe swung to the filing
cabinet behind his desk, punched
name and number of the ship’s
doctor. The microcard slid into

ASTOUNDING SCIENCE-FICTION

the viewer, was projected on the
screen. Dr. Munroe scanned the
professional qualifications of the
medical officer. He dialed the
ship’s medical number.

The face of the gray-haired, alert
eyed physician appeared on the
screen instantly. “This is Lilly,
Medical Officer of the Sylvestrus
requesting pratique.”

Munroe transferred the image of
the photograph on his card with the
picture of the man on the sceen to
the analyzer. Automatically the
pictures blended. He looked at the
likeness calibrator. The point of
feature differential was well within
the margin of error allowed for
aging difference. Apparently they
had not been out very long. He
waited while a new photograph was
made, became a part of the doctor’s
master card.

“This is Munroe, Senior Medical
Officer, Ninth Lunar Quarantine
Station. Report point of departure,
duration, and nature of voyage. List
all patients with their diseases. This
demand is made for the public.”

“Earthing from Ferenzia, Planet
II ; Albrecht System. Freight has
been subjected to approved routine
decontamination procedures. Holds
are now under three atmospheres of
chloropoxsine. Ship’s company con-
sists of two-twenty officers and rat-
ings. Passengers twelve hundred
and ten. One birth en route. No
deaths. One case of ondecca fever,
cured without sequelae. Request
clearance.”

“Pratique granted.”

He turned to the other phone an-
nouncing the arrival of a freighter

from Halseps. His mind leafed
through the pages of memory to re-
call the planet. He was forced to go
to the planetary index file. It was
a small planet of a distant sun on
the very periphery of man’s grow-
ing empire. Operations could tell
him nothing about the ship or the
medical officer.

When he called the ship, the
grooved face of a snarl-haired,
black-browed, square-chinned man
appeared. An officer’s cap was
cocked on the ragged remnant of
one ear. His beady, black eyes
were venomously sadistic. “I’m Bill
Blackbern, medical officer of the
ship,” his voice was angrily resent-
ful, “don’t remember my number.
We ain't got any disease aboard.
We want to clear for Earth. Is
that satisfactory with you boys.”
He finished sarcastically.

Dave Munroe punched out the
name and from more than five mil-
lion medical cards in his filing cabi-
net, two photomicrographs slid into
the projector. One of them was a
new graduate. The face of the
freighter’s medical officer was simi-
lar to the other card but feature
correlation was ejected by the ana-
lyzer.

“Place your face one inch from
the screen,” Dave ordered, “and
open your eyes wide.” He slid an
ophthalmoscopic camera over his
screen, photographed the eye
grounds of the doctor, compared
those with the prints he had. They
tallied.

“Look, Doc,” Blackbern’s voice
was a rasping growl, “I said we
want to clear Earthwards. Our

FOR THE PUBLIC

?5

ship is clean in and out. Our holds
are filled with treated nalyor skins.
Soft beautiful pelts that glow in
the dark like each strand was made
of platinum. The finest things ever
to come from an animal. The gals
will go wild over them. Give us
clearance and I’ll see you get one.
They’re worth a thousand stellars
each. Nice thing for your wife.”

At the mention of wife a sick
feeling of anguish followed by a
surge of unreasoning anger swept
him. He ignored the bribe. “My
records fail to show me what ship
you’re in. My last entry is dated
seven years ago when you were ex-
pelled from practice on Dynia.”

“I was railroaded by one of the
big companies,” Blackbern exploded.
“I got a job on this ship and we
cruised about the Aldebaran nucleus.
We’re Earthing from Halseps.
We've got thirty officers and
men — ”

“How many did you start with?”
“We started with about a hun-
dred but — ”

“What happened to them?” Dave
asked sharply.

Blackbern grinned unpleasantly.
“You ain’t been out among the lesser
rocks. Out there, there ain’t no
law, no God and the boys play for
keeps. If you land on an airless
planet and you got an enemy, you
might find he’s put metal filings in
your atmosphere regenerator; or if
it’s a virulent planet why he might
burn a weld in your armor.” He
laughed rudely. “The Canaberra is
a clean ship, in and out.”

“I’m familiar with conditions at
the periphery,” Dave said coldly.

76

“Do you have any disease of any
type in your ship ?”

“If we do have, does it mean we
can’t go to Earth? We’ve got a
fortune in skins. We’ll take care
of any spacemen — ” He stopped
suddenly.

Dave’s nimble fingers danced over
switches on his desk. “Attention in
the Statiori ! Attention Earth
Guard ! Attention Exotic Disease
Control ! The ship to which I’m
now talking, the freighter Cana-
berra, Earthing from Halseps has
been denied pratique. The profes-
sional ability and standards of the
medical officer is open to doubt.
Cradle ship for examination ; begin
routine external hull wash. This is
for the public.”

Blackbern ’s face became dark and .
ugly. “You and your public. All
right you nosey pig-brain. I’ve got
several guys here with something
that acts like malignant tuberculo-
sis, at least they’re coughing their
lungs out,” he laughed sadistically,
“but in little pieces you under-
stand, just little pieces.”

The closed phone from the yard
office rang and the ground doctor
appeared on the screen. "Dr. Mun-
roe,” he said. “I’d like to remind
you there is no epidemiologist at
Exotic. Only the pathology crew
and the medics from the colonial
office.” He paused, “Dr. Craig died
this morning.”

“I know it. I’m taking over con-
trol this afternoon.”

“Doctor, not you again,” concern
mirrored the physician’s face.
“That’s too bad.”

ASTOUNDING SCIENCE-FICTION

“Ji’s tor the public,” Dave said
sharply.

“It’s for the public,” the doctor
repeated the liturgy.

Dave pressed the stud turning on
his window. He looked out over
the quarantine station. Cupped in
Tycho’s crag- walled crater the sym-
metrical buildings were beautiful in
their utilitarian design. The tackle
gang expanding the cradle to re-
ceive. a Transtellar freighter looked
like silver bugs in the harsh, white
sunlight. The ship settled into the
ways like a ball floating slowly into
a kitten’s claws. An exploring bat-
tleship, cradled earlier, was dis-
charging its crew into the Physicals
Building. The ground crew was
setting up lire guns preparing to
wrap the hull in a sterilizing flame
blanket. Lines hosing out to the
ship from the Chemical Building,
from this distance, looked like thin,
golden snakes.

Above the Lunar surface, the
Sylveslnts gathering speed for Earth
was like a flaming mirror. Near her
was the Cambena, Blackbern’s
freighter.

He brought it closer on the screen
and his lips curled in disgust. Its
hull was a dirty black, mottled with
areas of reddened corrosion. One
of the port: screens was blanked out
by a cracked, plastic disk. The
grounding tackle hung to the ship
like shreds of seaweed to a rotten
log. Freezing vapor from expand-
ing air, escaping from a rent in the
topside surface, looked like a thin
plume of steam from a tea kettle.

The sight of the ship with its

dread implications of disease was
an anchor to his weary emotions.
He realized again the public had
to be protected from the biological
catastrophe such a ship would cause.

One extraterrestrial disease, made
horribly contagious by lack of any
racial immunity would sweep
Earth’s billions ; they would fall be-
fore such infection like pillars of
steel in a neutrone flame.

He was a policeman; protecting
the health of the public. A wave of
pure contentment swept him,
washed away the sodden feeling of
morose despair and indignant anger.

The gong of the phone and the
appearance of an unfamiliar face on
the plate brought him to the screen.
“This is the toll operator on Earth.
Calling Dr. Munroe. Dr. Dave
Munroe. Is this Dr. Munroe. Ninth
Lunar Quarantine, Tycho?”

“This is Dr. Munroe. My number
is Professional 33-64-1875. I am
ready to speak. This call is not.
I repeat, this call is not for the
public.”

“This call is not for the public,”
the operator repeated. “You will
have a closed channel between you
and your party. Vernier adjust-
ment.” She read off the settings for
his phone. There was a flash of
violet light, she disappeared and the
clear, wide, gold-flecked eyes of
Roberta were smiling into his own.

“When will it be, Davey?” Her
voice held promise of happiness in
its lilting richness. “I’ve never
waited so impatiently.”

He swallowed, hating to see the
grinding crash of all their dreams.

FOR THE) eUBMt

77 -

‘‘It won’t be, might never be,
Roberta.”

She leaned closer to her screen.
So close she blanked out the details
of the laboratory behind her. “You
mean our marriage was forbidden?”
Her lovely eyes widened in bewil-
dered wonder. “But David. Why?
Was it you ? Me ?”

He fumbled for a cigarette to
bide the terrible burst of frustrated
anger filling his mind. He forced
sardonic laughter through his tight
mouth. “The marital division of
the bureau gave us a clean pratique.
It was the” — He spit out the words
— “the Bureau of Public Health,
Epidemiology Division !”

“What! But David,” startled
surprise flickered between her level
brows.

“They had good reason,” he
admitted, forcing himself to put it
into words. “You see I'm to go
to Exotic Disease Control.”

“Ohhhhh ! David no 1” She
capped her mouth with a long slen-
der hand as her face became gaunt
and pale. “Not again. Not that — ”
Her voice trailed off into a clicking
whisper.

He tore a strip of tape from the
scribe talk, transliterated the mes-
sage slowly, realizing as he did so,
he was reciting what might well be
his own epitaph. “ ‘From: Director
General, Public Health. To: All
Personnel. Dr. James Craig, Com-
mander in the Public Health, Senior
Medical Officer, Exotic Disease
Control, Lunar Station, died this
morning while entering a disease
ship. He willfully entered this ship,
well aware of its hazards. His

78

conduct was in keeping with the
highest traditions of the Public
Health Service. Signed: Gumnes,
Director General.’

“Now listen. It’s right on the
same tape. Saving money,” he ex-
plained bitterly. “ ‘Personal trans-
fer order : Commander David Mun-
roe, Planetary Epidemiologist, upon
reporting to Commander Sigmund
Russell, Planetary Epidemiologist
you will take command of Exotic
Disease Control to fill out the term
of the late Dr. James Craig. This
transfer is for the public.’

“ ‘From : Personnel Division : In
accordance with Directive 43, Para-
graph B of the rules and regulations
of the Public Health Service which
states that personnel assigned extra
hazardous duty as exemplified by
Exotic Disease Control may not
be married; you, Dr. David M.un-
roe are informed that your request
for permission to marry Dr. Roberta
W allace is denied until such time as
you have completed your newly as-
signed tour of duty. This denial
is for the public.”

“How long will you be there?”
Roberta asked in a tight, hushed
voice.

“I’ll have about four months.
I’ve been there twice, you know.
No one,” he said slowly, “has come
back a third time.”

She tried to sound matter-of-fact.
“That’s what comes from being a
good doctor. Mediocrity does have
its compensations.” She forced a
smile. “Just think it’ll be double
pay with a bonus. Oh! Dave, if
only you don’t have to go prowling

ASTOUNDING SCIENCE-FICTION

around in some derelict. That is
what gets them all.”

“Some one has to see where the
ship came from,” he pointed out.
“It’s for the public.”

“If you do get a derelict showing
dead lights, just take the organisms
and never mind trying to clean the
ship for some big company. Don’t
try and be a hero.”

He laughed at her advice. “That’s
all you ever do. Just open the ship
at the landing room air lock, take
a sample of the organisms. See if
they are the lethal cause. If they
are, you just turn them over to the
bacteriochemists for classification.
You let the pharmacology crew
work out the antigen. Then you
pull the log to see where the ship
had been, sterilize it, turn it over
to the Colonial Office.”

“Promise me you won’t go tramp-
ing around inside one of those
ships.” She insisted.

“That’s sure death ; particularly
if the cause of the dead lights is
bacterial. That’s what killed Craig,
I understand. They brought in a
ship from the Mycops nucleus. The
bacteria thrived on ultraviolet radia-
tion. They were evolved in an at-
mosphere that was intensely ionized
and extremely hot. I understand
the planet is extremely rich in
radium. He sterilized himself in an
acid shower, covered himself with a
flame blanket, but when he bivalved
his suit in his quarters one of them
must have still been alive. He was
dead within an hour. They volati-
lized the ship.” He shook his head.
“Nope, I can assure you I won’t
go exploring into a derelict. Do

I look as though I were dropped
on my head as an infant?”

She ignored his humor. “Let me
talk to the Director.” She sug-
gested tenderly. “I'm doing some
work for his Bureau; maybe he’ll
listen to me and give you new or-
ders.”

The line of his mouth grew hard
and chiseled at this threat to his
masculine ego. “Roberta, you’ll do
no such thing. Look, I have a lot of
work to do. I'll call you before I
go over to Exotic.”

“No, don’t.” She touched the
corners of her eyes with a handker-
chief. “I’ll be here waiting for
you when you return. Just return,
that’s all I’m warning you. Be-
sides,” she managed a smile, “I’ve
got work to do, too”

“Once I get to Exotic, I can’t call
you, you know.”

“That's better, it won’t interfere
with what I’m doing. I’m trying to
set up a pharmacologic formula for
chitinizing the skin of the beryllium
workers in the mines of Nebos. Of
course it has to be reversible so they
can come back to their families. Be-
sides,” she laughed reflectively,
“we should be saving our money.
Just think when you come back
you’ll get a year’s vacation. Let’s
settle on Zercan. I hear it’s a gor-
geous planet. I'll be a housewife
and cook your meals right from cans
like a real twentieth-century wife
and you can practice medicine.
Oh! David, do be Gareful.”

He cut off the phone, hating him-
self for the emotionalism that made
the globus form in his throat; real-
ized the trajectory of such thoughts

FOE THE PUBLIC

70

was causing mental trauma sufficient
to make him a physical coward.

He clicked his jaws, drew up a
scribe bank, dictated his will. He
was removing his personal effects
from the desk when Dr. Russell
walked in.

“Personnel hated to do this to
you,” Russell informed him after
their formal greeting, “but there
was just no one else in the area
with your experience who hadn’t al-
ready been there twice. You were
the nearest.”

“It’s for the public,” Dave
pointed out.

“Just don't venture beyond the
landing rooms of any dead ships
chasing unclassified bacteria,” he
cautioned, “and I’m sure you’ll
come through. Remember don’t
risk your life for nothing.”

Dave thought the warning was
excessive. “You want to be briefed
on this station?”

“I had a similar duty on Meiss-
ner. Fill out any gaps for me.”
He clicked details on his fingers.
“Lunar Operations routes the ship
to your station. You check the
ship's surgeon with the analyzer and
if everything is kosher the ship is
granted pratique for Earth.”

“If feature correlation is in ex-
cess of aging difference, check eye
grounds. Some of these tramp
freighters can do wonders with il-
legal plastic surgeons. They drag
in contraband and all kinds of
organisms.”

"I'll remember that. If the ship
has a doubtful itinerary, cradle and
your ground crew decontaminates

the ship and its cargo and the junior
medics examine the personnel. They
report deviants to you for whatever
action you decide.”

“Whenever you have a doubt,
send it to Exotic,” Dave insisted.

The blond haired operator ap-
peared on the phone* “Exotic Dis-
ease Control on 4; can you take
the call ?”

Dave flicked switches on his desk.
“Munroe, Ninth Lunar Quarantine.
You want me?”

“This is Thurman, chief of rat-
ings at Exotic, sir. I called Opera-
tions and they referred me to you.
The C ana b err a is here, medical
officer is a Dr. Blackbern. We
started the routine hull wash but
he refuses to let my crew in to
decontaminate the hold areas. Dr.
Nissen is examining the crew now.
And, sir,” Thurman appeared wor-
ried, “The Starry Maid is over us
demanding that we remove some
patients at once. Their doctor is
most insistent.”

“What’s the Starry Maid?”
Russell leaned forward, blanked
the phone. “That’s the private
yacht of Mr. Latham Nordheimer.”
Dave whistled. “Where,” he
whispered, “would he have been to
pick up anything needing Exotic?”
Russell shrugged. “He’s got a
socialite playboy for a medical of-
ficer. He couldn’t tell the differ-
ence between simple acne and ma-
lignant space burn. He’s my idea
of what a high grade moron would
be with no intelligence. He’s crazy
about Nordheimer’s luscious daugh-
ter but whether it’s mutual or not
I don’t know. Because he is so

ASTOUNDING SCIENCE-FICTION

intellectually interior he’s like all
dim brains ; dangerous when
crossed. He loves his power as
medical man to one of Solar’s rich-
est men. He’d like nothing better
than to turn in a doctor for a missed
diagnosis,"

“Nice boy to talk back to,” Dave
unblanked the phone. “Thurman,
tell Dr. Blackbern I ordered you
to enter the ship. If he questions
this order further, call the Duty
Officer of the Guard and request the
riot Marine-* I’ll back you up.”

“Shall I remove the patients from
the Starry Maid f'

“No. They might have some-
thing contagious. Let them stew in
their own impatience. We’re the
Public Health Service not animals
to be ordered about."

He cut off the phone, poured two
cups of coffee. ®Tm not going to
get high blood pressure for some
rich man." Dave grinned at Rus-
sell. “Have you ever noted that
a rich man becomes paranoid ; starts
thinking he is above the people.”

Russell’s laugh was as soothing as
balm on a space boil. “Just the
same I admire your courage telling
the mighty Nordheimer to wait.
It’s always a comfort though to
know the Bureau will back us up
for the public."

Dave finished his coffee. He
picked up the phone, announced to
the station the transfer of authority.
He turned oil* the desk, locked the
tape box, handed over the keys to
Dr. Russell. “It’s all yours now.
Would you have your steward pack
in}' clothes and ship them to the
Personnel Desk in the Bureau. I’ll

pick them up there if I come out
of Exotic.”

“Will do.” At the panel lead-
ing to the mobile ramp Russell
placed a comforting hand on Dave’s
shoulder, “Good luck, Munroe.
Stay out of derelicts and I’ll try not
to send you anything green.”

Exotic Disease Control is located
on the northern edge of Mare Cap-
sicum. The station is as functional
as a lathe and with just about the
same amount of beauty. It consists
of a group of hemispherical build-
ings arranged concentrically around
the metallic cradling table.

It lacks the dynamic architecture
that makes Lunar Quarantine Sta-
tions so outstanding. Exotic Con-
trol was designed solely for isolat-
ing the new bacteria, viruses, fungae
and yeasts with which mankind in-
fects himself from the distant,
biologically unexplored planets.

The little brown house, as the
doctors refer to the isolation hos-
pital, is located here. It is in its
wards that passengers and space-
men, who have become infected,
wait until their disease is cured
or — ! It is a part of the cost of
spatial exploration ; man would have
it no other way.

At Exotic Disease Control are
located the esoteric pathologists, the
virologists, bacterio-chemists, phar-
macologists. Here, too, are located
the planetary cartographers and
ecologists, ceaselessly studying the
characteristics of the better planets
so they can be certified for coloni-
zation.

When Dave alighted from the

FOR TIE PUBI.IC

it

ASTOUNDING .SCIENCE-FICTION

« 2

luna car, the crew about the dirty
freighter dropped chemical lines,
greeted him with brazen clanging
of metal as they clapped bronzed
sheathed hands on the armor of his
metal covered shoulders.

The medical division, the landing
gangs, the sterile squads and the
decontamination crews followed
him into the Administration Build-
ing. “It’s good to be back here
again.” Dave said when he had
thrown back his glassite helmet.

At this palpable lie, all the men
let out a whoop of laughter. He
stilled it with raised hand. “I don’t
need to enlarge on our responsi-
bility to the public. They trust
us to prevent disease reaching
Earth.

“We’ll work here now just as we
did the last time I was here. I alone
will investigate ships from any of
the outer nuclei, or those that have
questionable disease in anyway. I
will make all primary diagnosis and
do autopsies on those remains found
in ships. No one is to risk his life
doing something that is my duty.
These are my orders.”

Dr. Blackbern shouldered his way
through the group about Dave.
“Cute talk you boys make. Very
lovely prattle about the care the pub-
lic gets, but how about me, us.
We’re a part of the public, too. I’ve
been here now for three hours and
all I've heard is talk, talk, talk.”

His dark face, stained by the tar-
nish of his beard, was sacastically
malevolent. “We’ve got a fortune
in skins out there we want to take
to Earth. One of your medics

came aboard, jerked about all of our
crew."

“Before you got here," Nissen,
the pathologist interposed, “I went
aboard to see Blackbern’s men.
Nordheimer was getting so im-
patient I began to worry about
what he might do to you.”

“I don’t think he can hurt me
officially,” Dave said easily. “What
about the crew?”

“Orya fever, ninety-five per cent
morbidity rate. Bacterioscope re-
veals it in their blood ; profound
toxemia on the hemospectroscope.
They’ll all have to stay in isolation
until cure is effected. The inner fit-
tings of the ship will have to be
burned. I checked the pelts but
they can be decontaminated in the
gas house.”

“You don’t touch that ship or
those pelts.” Blackbern’s face
flamed with anger. “I’ve got a right
to talk, too. I’m telling you I’m
going to Earth to sell those skins — ”

“Shut up!” Dave’s voice was sud-
denly explosive. “I run this sta-
tion — ”

“Why you little test-tube washer.”
Blackbern’s arm swept out, pushed
the men back, away from him, he
came forward, a black, enraged ani-
mal, fists like lead ingots whirling
madly. Dave saw it, saw the frus-
trated hysteria in the man, side-
stepped thte blow with the ease of a
professional dancer, for all that he
was incased in heavy armor. He
caught the raging man’s arm,
whirled him over his shoulder to fall
stunned and helpless at his feet.

He winked at the grinning men.
“He didn’t know that we test-tube

FOB THE PUBLIC

washers, softies that we are, have
to exercise at 3-Gs one hour every
day.” He looked at Blackbern’s
stupefied face. “Get up/' he or-
dered curtly, “we’re medical men,
not marines.”

Blackbern crawled heavily to his
feet. His venomous eyes were more
respectful. “You going to check
my ship,” he hesitated, added
grudgingly, “sir?”

Dave flicked the wrist switch of
his armor. Gears whined in its
metallic flanks as it bivalved. He
stepped out, shook the creases out
of his uniform. “I'm going to
check the spacemen first.”

The patients, thin, wasted cari-
catures of men lay in their bunks in
the isolation ward, watched him
with anxious expressions in their
deeply socketed eyes.

Corpsmen, clad in contagion- free
gowns, were setting up the steri-
banks. Nurses were briskly insert-
ing needles into the veins of the
cubital fossa, sterilizing their blood,
adding amino acids to the nutrient
to speed recovery.

He stopped by one of the bunks.
“When did you first get sick?"

The spaceman’s voice was a harsh
croak, “About six weeks out of
Halseps. Nothing but processed
food to eat. Air went foul. Too
much work . . . holding the ship
together. No medicines . . , air
ducts corroded through ... no
circulation — ” The voice trailed off
into sleep.

It was the typical story of a tramp
freighter. He continued with his
ward rounds: offered the cheering

84

confidence of an early recovery to
the patients ; cautioned corpsmen
against carelessness.

Before he was through, a mes-
senger came to him with a note
from Thurman : “Nordheimer has
just put through a call to the Chan-
cellor’s Office protesting his needless
delay.”

Dave swore softly, balled the note,
dropped it in the flame chute of a
dccontagion basket. Be turned to
Dr. Nissen: “Conduct the Guard
Office, tell them what we have here.
They may want to hold the cap-
tain for improper conduct. When
the skins are clean, call the Finance
Division of the Colonial Office so
they can arrange an auction for the
skins. I'm going out to check the
ship."

The interior of the C ana b err a was
a rotten, rusted mess. Eroded hull
plates allowed air seepage so the
atmosphere generators were con-
stantly overloaded. In consequence
of the lowered oxygen tension the
men had suffered debilitating,
chronic anoxemia. Air duets were
fouled so that circulation of even
vitiated air was impossible. The
sewage disposal plant had broken
down and filthy sludge filled the
under decks.

He shuddered to think of the so-
cial conditions at the periphery of
man’s empire. The crew’s quarters
were a stifling miasma; it was a
wonder any of them lived to make
Earth. The holds of the ship were
filled with untreated nalyor skins,
which in spite of their filthy con-
dition radiated the glowing plati-
num beauty which made them the

ASTOUNDING SOIF5NOK -IMOTION

most beautiful pelt ever seen in the
astrosphere.

Dave summoned Blackbern. “I’m
condemning your ship. It will be
taken to the hulk yard and broken
up. You may protest this action
before the Domain Board. This
condemnation is for the public.”
He ignored the vituperative re-
sponse.

The ground, crew attached cables
to the overtop shackles and tugs
lifted the freighter from the cradle.

Instantly, it seemed, the sleek
lines of the Starry Maid appeared
over the cradling table. Its polished
hull gleamed like living flame.

The landing crew grabbed anchor-
ing lines, passed terminal hooks
through the ground eyelets.
Winches in the landing compart-
ments of the yacht turned, tighten-
ing the lines and as power was re-
leased from the gravity plates the
ship fell slowly into the bassinet.

The landing lock opened and two
figures came down the ramp.

Dave blinked his eyes.

Never had he seen such space
armor. The helmets were domes
of jet; the wearer could see out
through the uni-transparent metal
but he couldn’t see within the cover.
A Red Cross of inlaid rubies flamed
brilliantly on the chest of one of the
figures. A blaze of diamonds mono-
gramed J. N. flickered on the left
breast of the other armored figure.
Scrolls of gold foamed over the
arms and shoulders of the armor.

“I’m Dr. Mortimer J. Mortimer,
Senior Surgeon of Nordheiiner &
Company and Medical Officer of the
yacht — ”

“Which of you is which?” Dave
looked from one dome to the other.
How in the name of deep space
could they expect him to know
which of the slender figures was
speaking.

The figure with the jeweled medi-
cal cross stepped forward. “I wish
to protest our long delay. A hulk
like that freighter should not be seen
ahead of Mr. Nordheimer. I want
you to bring up litters and remove
our patients at once.”

Dave listened to the contentious
voice with amused incredulity.
“Look, Doc,” he said after a long
pause, “this is Exotic Disease Con-
trol. If you think you have some-
thing serious enough for isolation,
then it must be serious enough to
warrant potential quarantine of the
entire ship. Suppose we see the
patients first.”

Dave walked up the ramp. As
the panels closed the diamond mono-
gramed figure disappeared into an-
other compartment. Dave watched
curiously as the other figure stepped
into a metal frame which unhinged
tlie armor. At the sight of its or-
nate, padded interior he wondered
with a perverse sense of humor if
the motors of the suit weren’t gold
plated and the air ducts lined with
platinum.

“Whatcha got?” He asked after
introducing himself.

Dr. Mortimer J. Mortimer’s arro-
gant face puckered into a haughty
frown. “Now really. I don’t know.
I’m not a planetary epidemiologist.
That’s your field.”

FOR THE PUBLIC

85

“What’re their symptoms? 5 '

“It's a loathsome thing; changes
their personality." Dr. Mortimer
J. Mortimer delicately touched the
waves of his beautiful blond hair.
“I’ll tell you about them as we go
to their quarters.”

He led the way through corri-
dors tesselated with fabulously
beautiful paneling, over carpeting
as soft as rubberoid foam. In-
tricately engraved doors opened at
their approach, whispered softly as
they closed behind them.

“It had an insidious onset. They
became weak ; at first we thought it
sheer laziness, so many spacemen
are, you see. It’s a big problem on
many of our outer nuclei freighters.
You’d be surprised at all the diffi-
culty our captains have with the
bums. I have an entire department
just — "

“Never mind the economics of
your job," Dave cut in sliarply, “how
about your patients now?”

Dr. Mortimer J. Mortimer turned,
stared insolently at Dave. “The
malaise I was speaking of appeared
like laziness. I insisted the captain
work them harder. I realized they
were ill with some strange malady
when they started developing a
rather alarming glossitis. Their
mouths and tongues were inflamed ;
dysphagia was. quite pronounced.
They are now having difficulty in
even swallowing water. Then their
skins started turning that loathsome
green color. I knew it was serious
and of course isolated them at once ;
had a special air filter rigged, it's
really quite a work of engineering
art. I’m thinking of writing a paper
as

on it for publication in the Journal
of Spatial Medicine ”

“What? The air filter or the
men’s illness?” Dave did not even
try to hide the derision in his voice.

Dr. Mortimer J. Mortimer ig-
nored the scorn in Dave’s voice.
“Their hair got brittle and started
falling out and their nails became
ridged. As you will see they are
wasting rapidly from a profound
toxemia. We must have them off
at once. I can assure you none
of us have become infected.”

They passed through the crew's
quarters, stopped abruptly at its
welded door. Some spacemen
wheeled up a portable lock, started
fastening it to the paneling.

“How’ve you been feeding these
men?” Dave wondered.

“I put a corpsman in with them,
gave them processed food. Of
course I haven’t gone in there. I
couldn’t risk infecting Mr. Nord-
heimer or Janith with anything.”
Dave wheeled in the yacht’s diag-
nostic equipment; exquisite medical
instruments which made him writhe
with professional envy.

The warm odor of congestion,
like an unaired gymnasium, filled
his nostrils. The bunk rooms were
packed to the ceiling with sweating,
miserable, palpably ill men.

He examined their yellow-green
skin carefully; looked long at their
reddened, swollen tongues. All of
them were afflicted with the same
type of disease. He examined blood
under the bacterioscope. No or-
ganism caused their illness ; the
toxemia came from the waste of
their own body. They were weak

ASTOUNDING SCIENCE-FICTION

from sheer anemia, He raised his
head from the hemiglobinometer,
dark fury in his eyes.

Dr. Mortimer J. Mortimer was
leaning against the bulkhead, ob-
livious to the hostile stares of the
men. “Well ? What do they have,
M unroe ?” He asked indifferently.

“Chlorosis! Simple spatial ane-
mia. Due to lack of protein in their
diet.”

“That's what I told him,” a gray-
haired spaceman muttered angrily.
“Processed food is all they gave
that bunch. We regulars ate good,
them got nothing.”

Dr. Mortimer J. Mortimer
straightened abruptly. “You don’t
certainly expect them to eat like
Mr. Nordheimer or the officers.”

“By deep space,” the spaceman
growled, “they should be fed some-
thing besides bread and vitamin
tablets, even if they are working
their way back to Earth.” He
looked at Dave. “And we could
have a doctor on this ship, too.”

Dave knew the spaceman’s knowl-
edge of hematology had not been
learned from textbooks. It had been
learned the hard way; from dietary
experience in deep, black space. If
Dr. Mortimer J. Mortimer had not
been so indifferent to the health of
the crew, he would have insisted
that they be fed a more adequate
diet; aborted the illness before it
ever started. He recalled what Dr.
Russell had said about the moronic
mind of the Starry Maid's medical
officer.

“I want to speak to the owner,”
Dave said.

“I hardly believe Mr, Nord-

1*0* THE PUBLIC

heimer would care to speak to you.”
Dr. Mortimer J. Mortimer said
rudely. “After all, you know he
just doesn’t see anybody.”

“I’m not just anybody.” Dave’s
eyes narrowed angrily. “I’m speak-
ing for the public. I insist on see-
ing him.”

“The public,” Mortimer laughed
scornfully. “Mr. Nordheimer is
not interested in the public — ”

“But I am,” Dave broke in, fury
in his voice. “I'll see him if I have
to tear these bulkheads down with
my bare hands.”

Dr. Mortimer stepped back at the
sight of Dave’s icy, angry face. He
darted a quick look at the smirking
spacemen. “You public employees
certainly have an hypertrophied
sense of responsibility.” He tittered
self-consciously at bis clinical
analysis. “Very well. I’ll take you
to see Mr. Nordheimer, but mind
you don’t expect a kind reception.”
There was condescending mockery
in his voice. “At least you’ll see
the grand salon and that is more
than most people ever do.”

Dave followed the slender doc-
tor to the grand salon of the
ship.

He stopped abruptly as he
stepped in. Eyes widened in
unashamed, breathless wonder.
Never had he seen such an
impressive sight.

He was looking at the Macro-
Mafintic Falls of Zaragahn, Sirius’
great planet. He recognized it
from teleposters. Now he was
looking at its captured reality. It
was the most magnificent sight he

87

had ever seen; unutterably breath-
taking in its majestic beauty.

Mountains, glittering with snow,
vanished into an illusory horizon,
water from a mighty river burst
forth to fall for twenty-five thou-
sand meters into a narrow, tortu-
ous canyon. But three-quarters of
the way down, up-sweeping wind
caught the watery shaft, tore it into
niist, whirled it cyclonically up-
wards, Electrostatic charges formed
on the droplets lo be neutralized by
vivid electric discharges and
through the mist, jagged lightning
flashed ceaselessly and the deep
throated rumble of thunder echoed
in the mountains.

Dave had heard the sight of the
Falls rivaled the splendor of
Sirius' incredible, tumultuous promi-
nences, He could believe that
now,

Man lacked the multiple percep-
tive ability so necessary to appre-
ciate the tremendous forces in a
solar storm. His sensual comprehen-
sion could not grasp and hold for
cerebration the magnitude of the
incredible, flaming vortices that
writhed and twisted millions of
miles above Sirius’ churning sur-
face.

The Macro-Mafintic Falls can be
adequately appreciated for all their
majestic worth. It captures percep-
tion through senses that are instinc-
tively familiar. Man has crawled
on the slopes of mountains; felt
the vibrating wonder of their crea-
tion. He has seen clouds form,
felt the coolness of their mist; been
thrilled by their rain. He has seen
and felt and feared the lightning;

trembled with wonder at the crack
of thunder. He had built dams;
listened with smug satisfaction as
a tamed river roared its spilling
protest. This, then, was but the
infinite magnification of an age-old
experience.

He looked on in wonder. The
Fall? seemed to strike on a churn-
ing violet cloud that billowed and
swirled over a foundation of light-
ning before it fell into the in-
credible gorge.

The room was built un a promon-
tory jutting out over a wide, deep
chasm. A fireplace, burning golden
apple wood, crackled behind him
and the air was spicy with the
tangy, piny freshness of high
mountains.

Dave walked to the rail, looked
up at the snow-capped peaks. Im-
possible to believe this sublime
scene was but the three-dimensional
art of a photographer. It was too
dynamic. The flashing lightning,
the rumble ot thunder, the roar of
the Falls, muted by distance was
too real.

It: required actual mental effort
for him to realize he was not stand-
ing on a real reck on Zaragahn
looking at the Falls : instead he
was in the grand salon of a sump-
tuous yacht, now resting in the
landing cradle of Exotic Disease
Control.

“Are you sight-seeing.*' an irri-
table voice snapped, “or did you
want to see me?”

Dave whirled and in a flash was
conscious of Mortimer's condescend-
ing sneer and the thin, vulture face

ASTOUNDING SOIBNOB-fflUTlOM

of Mr. Nordheimer regarding him
with cynical, beady, black eyes.

"I’ve just examined your crew-
men,” Dave announced flatly.

“That’s kind of you,” rasped
Nordheimer, “now take them off so
we can Earth. I’ve waited here
long enough.”

Dave faced the fabulously
wealthy, almost omnipotent Nord-
heimer with the slightest trickle of
fear welling within him. Stories
of his greedy love of .power had
seeped into the smallest colonies of
Earth’s empire.

He had once hurled the might of
his private spatial force on a planet
because it failed to recognize his
economic power. It was whispered
that on the planets of the periphery
he was worshiped as a god, a devil,
an emperor ; that one planet was his
arsenal of empire ; devoted exclu-
sively to the manufacture, of
weapons to keep him in power.
That some day he intended to be
the master of the world.

“No!” Dave said, “their illness is
not infectious; they do not need to
be removed.”

There was a tormenting mo-
ment of intense nervous tension in
the room. Lightning from the
Falls tinted the walls vivid violet
and the roll of thunder, like an on-
coming storm, was a menacing
rumble.

Nordheimer settled deeply into a
low, spun metal divan. Corrugated
lids closed slowly over his venomous
eyes. A cynical smile curled at the
corners of his thin, bloodless lips.
“My doctor said their illness was
infectious; that is enough for me.

I tell you now. Take those men
off and at once. That is an
order.”

“No!” Dave’s voice was curtly
emphatic. “Your men suffered
from protein starvation ; they be-
came anemic with a disease as old
as Earthly immigration Chlorosis.
You picked those men from some
planet, brought them back here to
save yourself the cost of a regular
crew. I will inform the Immigra-
tion officers of this and they will
remove and treat your men.”
Nordheimer’s brows met in a
satanic V. His thip, irritable face
reddened ominously. “You infer
my doctor was wrong.”

“Your doctor,” Dave answered,
turning to Dr. Mortimer J. Morti-
mer, “is an incompetent moron.”
“You can’t say that about me.”
Mortimer started forward.

“Shut up!” Nordheimer growled.
“He’s probably right.” He looked
up at Dave, slowly without moving
his eyes from those of the doctor,
reached out for a platinum trimmed
glass. A clawlike hand brought
the glass to his mouth, he sipped
slowly, hypnotic eyes looking
steadily into Dr. Munroe’s. “Do
you refuse to take those men off
this ship?” The glass was held
close to his mouth.

“I do,” Dave said steadily.
“Exotic Disease Control is run for
the public; not for the whims of
privileged groups.”

“The public.” Nordheimer
snorted. “Who cares about them
anyway — ”

“The Public Health Service,”
Dave retorted angrily.

FOR THE PUBLIC

88

Nordheimer set the glass down,
pulled a wallet from his pocket,
extracted a thick sheaf of hundred
stellar notes. “Take this and buy
yourself a present. I’ll — ”

Dave started towards the door.
“I will release you at once,
Immigration will expect you in
thirty minutes.”

“Come back here.” Nordheimer
whirled to Mortimer. “Summon
the captain.”

“What’s the matter, father;
found something you can’t buy?”

They turned at the throaty voice.
Janith Nordheimer was standing
in an open panel. Dave recognized
her from the numerous picture
magazines. She stepped out, walk-
ing the length of the compartment
with a lazy, free stride. Viewing
her this way, Dave could appreciate
the groomed perfection she repre-
sented. She was wearing a loose,
knee-length coat of shimmering
metallic material, drawn tightly
about her waist by a braided, metal
belt ending in thin gold tassels. It
was a costume designed to display
the flawless symmetry of her beauti-
ful figure. She sauntered to a
taboret, touched a pedal on the
tesselated deck with the toe of a
diamond encrusted shoe.

“Hate that view,” she said as
multiple panels formed to screen
the view of the Falls. She rested
her elbows on the back of a chair,
regarded Dave, an insolent expres-
sion in her dark, sophisticated eyes.
“Protecting the insensate mob,
watching the helpless public; you
must have studied the manual of

90

the Juvenile Planeteers. I under-
stand they do things like good
deeds and such.”

Mortimer snickered, clapping his
hands together happily. “Mun-
roe,” he giggled. “Munroe the
Noble.”

The captain of the yacht came in
at that moment. “You sent for
me, sir?”

“Yeah.” Nordheimer jerked his
head at Dave. “This bacteria engi-
neer orders me, me to take my ship
over to Immigration and have them
put those patients in bed and I
would have to pay for that, besides
having all of the hoi polloi on
Earth knowing where I'd been.”
“Yes, sir,” the captain said
deferentially. “You will remem-
ber, sir, I advised you that land-
ing at Exotic Disease Control,
unless we had some really infectious
disease, was dangerous — ”

“Who cares about it being
dangerous,” Nordheimer sneered.
“Toss this germ mechanic — ”
“Germ mechanic.” Dr. Morti-
mer discharged a bellow of laugh-
ter. “That’s a good one, yes sir,
that’s really a good one, germ
mechanic. I’ll have to remember
that one — ”

“Shut up when I’m talking,”
Nordheimer rumbled. He turned
back to the captain. “Toss him off
the ship, and I don’t bother
whether he has armor or not — ”
“We’re too close to Earth for
that now, sir,” the captain inter-
posed cautiously. “All he has to do
is raise his hand, speak into his
wrist communicator and we’d be
blasted by the Guard before we

ASTOUNDING SCIENCE-FICTION

could raise the Chancellor’s Office.”
Janith Nordheimer chuckled.
‘'But he would be blasted, too.”
‘‘That's right,” the captain admit-
ted, “but he is at Exotic Disease
Control. The doctors of the Pub-
lic Health Service ordered here are
conditioned to expect death. It is
part of their duty. I’m sure the
doctor would rather die by a neu-
tron blast than by a disease he is
sure to get from some derelict from
the outer nuclei.”

The Nordheimers looked at him
with new formed respect in their
widened eyes. “We’ll go to
Immigration,” the man said hastily.
He whirled on Dave. “Understand
one thing, you mention one word
of this conversation officially and
I’ll have your job.”

“Why, Mr. Nordheimer,” Dave
hoped his expression showed aston-
ished wonder. “I didn’t know you
needed employment.”

The last thing he heard as he
started down the corridor to the
lock was Janith’s taunting laugh
and her sneering admonition he
had better be very, very careful
from now on.

He told the doctors and the chief
about the scene. “The Old Boy is
a power,” Dr. Nissen pointed out
in a worried voice. “He has lots
of rocks in the sky, he can control
Planetary Congress and they dic-
tate to the Chancellor.”

“But they are all afraid of the
public.” He shrugged his broad
shoulders. “Well, there’s nothing
to do about it now. Let’s go on

FOR TBF PUBLIC

to Blackbern’s patients.” He
stopped, placed a hand on Nissen's
shoulder. “Of the two personali-
ties, I admire Blackbern’s stupid
ruthlessness much more than the
calculating cruelty of the teutonic
minded Nordlieimer.”

Dave was in the A & R checking
welds in his armor when Opera-
tions summoned him on the phone.
“Get on the closed channel, the
Director of the Inner Port wishes
to speak to you privately.”

Dave made the contact in his
office, “This M unroe, Exotic Dis-
ease Control. Duty Officer re-
quested I contact you on the closed
channel.”

“Can your side be seen or heard
in?” the director asked cautiously.

Dave read off his settings, the
director seemed satisfied, for he
said at once, “Nordheimer is mad
at you. He put pressure on the
Chancellor, the cabinet met in se-
cret session and are drafting a bill
to limit the power of the Public
Health Service. Nordheimer said
he’d just be satisfied if they get rid
of you. What happened?”

“I made him wait while I took
care of some sick patients from a
freighter.”

“He’s spreading some nasty tales
about you. Something about,
accepting a bribe and insulting his
daughter and calling his medical
officer ail incompetent fool — ”

Dave laughed. “The last part
is- true. However, when I went
aboard I was wearing an open wrist
phone, everything that was said is
a matter of record. I sent it to

the Earth Office with my own.
comments.”

“If they can’t get you legally,
he’ll do it some other way.”

“I’ve been expecting something,”
Dave admitted. “But all they can
do is kill me.”

“Don’t be so resigned,” the
director snapi>ed.

Three days later as the setting
Earth was casting long shadows
across the crater floor his dread
was crystallized into reality.

He was standing by the ramp
talking with the senior medical
officer of an exploring battleship
which hac! just slid out of the
velvety sky to unload a pet for
bacterial evaluation.

He laughed as die brontosaurus-
like creature in its glassite cage
was wheeled down the freight
ramp. A thought flashed through
his mind, amusing in its perversity.
Nordheimer should have such an
animal tor his doctor.

The gong of the phone in his
helmet was startlingly explosive.
“Duty Officer on Operations Chan-
nel.” He muttered a hasty excuse
to the. doctor, walked over to the
portable screen, plugged his phone
jack.

“Duty Officer speaking. The
Marsto'ti, a freighter, lost for over
two years, has been found out near
Pluto. The ship is owned by
Astrosphere, one of the Nordheimer
Companies. Nordheimer requests
a complete inner examination of
the ship..

“The Public Health Service said
an emphatic no. They could see no
reason for risking valuable person-

ASTOUNDING SCIENCE FIC'l' ION

net The company officials went to
the Secretary of Spatial Com-
merce, stated the Marston had been
sent on a voyage of commercial
exploration and it was essential
that only the log be secured but the
condition of the cargo be deter-
mined and the salvage possibilities
of the ship. You’d have to go
deep inside and make a determine.
This order is for the public.”

Dave flicked off the phone with
a wry grin. So this is how Brother
Nordheimer acts when he’s crossed.
He realized with cold objectivity
this action on Nordheimer’s part
was essential if he wished to con-
tinue in economic power.

Nordheimer could not attack him
with his secret police ; their alterca-
tion had been made public now and
the mass of the people would rebel
against such a militant action. He
was doing it cleverly, by seeing that
he went into a ship with a high
death potential.

He checked his armor minutely.
Ran in new air lines, lights,
communication circuits, even re-
placed the bearings on the blowers.
He remembered Blackbern’s crack
about broken welds; never left his
armor alone. He charged his own
physiology with every known im-
mune vaccine, serum and bacterin.
He spent his free time studying
Pyter’s Index of Extraterrestial
Diseases.

When Operations called, an-
nouncing the tugs would cradle the
freighter within an hour, he felt
himself as ready for battle against
the Unknown as he would ever be.

Dave armored himself, sum-

moned the various crews who would
help him make primary entrance,
walked blithely out to the landing
cradle.

He was not surprised to see the
two armored figures of Dr. Morti-
mer J. Mortimer and Janith Nord-
heimer watching him, taunting
smiles on their derisive faces. It
intrigued him they would leave off
blank helmets to be certain he
would see and recognize them;
know to the fullness the bitterness
of certain defeat at their hands.
He would have felt let down if they
liad not been there.

He hid his galling frustration
behind a mask of insouciant laugh-
ter. “Hail, Nordheimer. I who am
about to die and stuff salute you.”
There was mockery in his derisive
salute.

“I’ll pull you from this detail if
you’ll agree to be conditioned to
work for father.” Janith directed
her voice on a light beam so it
could not be heard by her com-
panion.

“Thanks for the offer,” Dave said
quietly. “But you see I’m a
physician.”

People from lunar stations were
assembling about the cradle in a
vast semicircle; gathering with the
morbid fascination only impending
catastrophe or violent death can
induce. Dave looked at them in
their varied armor, could not help
but laugh at the neuroses which
motivated such behavior.

He turned on the open communica-
tion circuit so all could hear him.
“Now hear this.” He raised his

FOR THE PUBLIC

voice, realizing as he shouted that
he was betraying tension; instantly
channeled his mind into precise,
frigid patterns. “Now hear this,”
he ordered quietly, as if directing
one of his crews. “No one is to
cross the limiting lights set by the
tower. This order is for your
protection.” He looked at Janith
and Mortimer. “This order is for
you, too. Get back at once.”

He walked to the landing cradle
as tugs appeared overhead holding
the Marston in the grip of un-
yielding tractors. In the bluish
Earth-set the vast, insensate
freighter was ominously menacing.
Dave looked up at its corroded,
curving sides and could not help
but shudder at the thought of the
grisly things he would find in its
black interior.

The steri-crew was wheeling up
vortex guns, tractor banks, flame
generators, acid lines and the tools
necessary to make entrance to a
derelict. Dave was aware a hush
had settled over the crowd. The
thin, distant murmur of noise from
a thousand communicators had
become a portentous silence now.

They were waiting with avid
interest for that breathless moment
when he opened the locks and en-
tered the ship. They could hardly
wait to hear what he would say
about his findings. He knew some
of them were growling impatiently
at his cautious preparations, grum-
bled at his exterior inspection.

The chief rolled up the portable
bacterial wagon. Dave stood still
as the medical kit’s tractors and
repellers were balanced, brought to

w

focus on his back. He took a few
steps to test its drag. “Lighten it
by fifty kilos,” he directed. “I
might have to climb and, chief, set
the automatic neutral so I can step
around and back without un-
focusing. I don’t want to chase
the thing over the lunarscape to find
a test tube.”

He walked slowly up the ramp,
moved along the blackened, rusted
keel. In some distant past the ship
had rested on a planet’s earthy sur-
face ; frozen earth cracked off at
his touch.

Instantly he melted the dirt with
a hand torch. A crumb of dust,
loaded with an unknown virus,
could settle in a joint of his metal
shoes, infect the station. He took
tweezers, teased off a few clumps,
put them in solution, centrifuged,
read the organic indicator on the
bacterioscopc, sighed with relief.
The stuff was sterile. The actinic
power of solar radiation had killed
any organisms clinging to the
ship. He took a larger sample for
the geologists, turned to the land-
ing room.

He took hold of the recessed
handle, turned and pulled. The
door was frozen closed. “Set up
a vortex, center it on the door, pull
the door and as the air explodes out
turn to full temp.”

He stepped back, turned on his
suit to full reflection so as to avoid
external heating. The crew aimed
their whirling flames at the door,
tractors penciled at the handle, the
door tore open with a grinding,
vibration, felt even through his
cushioned shoes. Air expanded out,

ASTOUNDING SCIENCE-FICTION

was caught in the whirling vortex,
heated instantly to its ultimate
limit.

Dave stood on the deck of the
entrance lock. He flashed his light
on the rusting bulkheads, on
winches oxidized by time, on ar-
mor, long since obsolete. He looked
at the ship’s design on the wall,
studied the passages, corridors,
location of offices and holds. He
went back out, picked up a power
cable, plugged it into the ship’s
emergency line. The ammeter
showed a. tremendous drain, but no
lights flashed in the compartment,
nor did his own circuits break with
overload.

He pushed the handle of the
winch to see if he had power there,
but the handle crumbled to flaky
dust in his grip. He took a scal-
pel from his mobile kit. scraped at
the door and the metal cracked and
peeled with brittle weakness. “The
interior metal is about as strong as
tin foil.” He made the announce-
ment surprised at his own calm-
ness. “Call for the consulting
metallurgists.”

He found the automatic log, the
device which recorded all the
captain’s orders, messages and
directives to his crew, unfastened
it from its niche, dropped it in a
sterilizing bath, handed it out to
Thurman. “I noticed £heir last
entry was they were leaving the
Cepheus nucleus. That’s a hard
white area, so we can expect a most
virulent type of organism. Flame
before opening.”

“Are you really going inship?”
Thurman asked anxiously.

“I must, it is orders.”

He pushed on the door leading
inship and the panel crashed in-
wards. The metal had the tensile
strength of decayed wood.

Curiosity had not erased his
natural fear or conquered his vague
apprehension.

As he walked gingerly up the
long corridor he had the spine-
tingling sensation that someone
was watching him and that at any
moment one of the panels would
slide back and someone would step
out and asked what he was doing
in their ship.

“I feel crazy,” he said aloud.

“You all right, sir.” It was
Thurman’s voice, it sounded faint,
alarmingly faint.

He shivered with expectation
as he rounded the corridor and
started up the ramp towards the
fifth deck. He felt the tug of the
kit behind him suddenly slacken
and he whirled abruptly to see his
mobile unit careening madly back
down the ramp. It hit the bulk-
head, crashed through its friable
metal, vanished into the cave it
created.

At the same instant he was aware
that his light was growing steadily
dimmer and the air in his suit was
stifling. He looked at the instru-
ments on his left wrist. He could
feel the pulsating throb of labor-
ing motors in his shoes. They were
pulling current, acting as though
they were being shorted out.

That was what had happened to
his kit. The tubes had blown from
an unexpected surge. Every in-

FOB TBB PTIBI.IC

stinct told him he should go back
and tell the Director General of the
Public Health Service to shove his
activity into deepest space and
keep it there. The discipline that
came from years of training was
greater than instinctual protective
mental mechanisms.

He stopped in the center of the
corridor to adjust his air machine.
He turned off his laboring motors
and set the emergency bellows in
his suit’s flanks. As long as he
walked they would circulate air, but
he couldn't stand still.

Then his lights went out.

He stopped, petrified with fear-
ful, startled surprise. He started
gropingly to retrace his steps, try-
ing to remember each turn he had
made when he became conscious
that the bulkheads, the overhead,
even the deck were emitting a faint
golden glow and as his eyes be-
came dark-adapted he discovered
that he could see perfectly well.
He forced himself to continue up
the ramp and through the corri-
dors.

He came to it!

The panel he dreaded, hoped to
reach. The entrance to the crew’s
quarters.

He pushed through the friable
panel. Stopped ! Abruptly !

Sweat oozed from his brow,
dripped down his back. Sweat
formed on the palms of his hands,
made them damp in their sheathed
gloves. Nausea gripped him. The
crew, all of them were here!

They weren’t the macabre, de-
cayed sight he had expected to find,
actually hoped to find. They laid

in their plastic bunks and their un-
clothed bodies were semitransparent
and they glowed with a lambent
flickering radiance. Their features
were vaguely discernible. He
experienced the eerie sensation they
were turning their heads, observing
his every action.

He forced himself to the side of
tile bunk. Pushed out his sheathed
hand, touched one of the things.
Instantly he felt a shock. A shock
as though an intense surge of pure
energy had leaped through his en-
tire organism and stultified his
brain. It was painful in its inten-
sity, exquisitely pleasant in its corti-
cal suggestion.

But the touch itself had done
something of unutterable wonder
to the body.

The light playing through the
human remains flickered violently,
vibrated with intense nervous en-
ergy as though his touch had
disturbed a primal balance. Then,
the body vanished in a flash of
coruscating fire and a tiny ball of
flame, almost microscopic in size
burned on the plastic bed frame.

He - touched another body,
watched it coalesce into condensed
living energy, felt the same orgias-
tic sensation ripple through liis
brain. He started to laugh, was
aware that he was laughing, looked
at his hand, giggling at the flame
which leaped from the metal
sheathing his fingers.

“The ultimate bacterial form ; the
pure electric protein. I've found
it,” he shouted. “Bacteria of pure
energy.” He jumped up and
down, dapping his hands in joyous

ASTOUNDING SCIENCE-FICTION

abandon at the concept of his
thought, distantly aware of his
euphoric insanity. He knew, too,
that what he had found was a long
anticipated discovery.

It was a mathematical certainty
it would be found. The medical
physicists had expected to find such
a life form as soon as they realized
the verity of atomic energy. A life
principle that by-passed the usual
organic methods of existence, took
their energy, without clumsy diges-
tion, absorption, detoxification and
evacuation, directly from the primal
source. It was the ultimate of
bacterial evolution.

He knew in the deep wells of his
mind that his actions now were a
result of short circuits in the
thalamic synapses, that the pyrami-
dal cells of his cortex were being
subjected to an intense radiation.
Just as it had drained the current
from his motors, shorted out the
intricate hookups in his medical kit,
it was even now destroying the deli-
cate fabric of his mind.

The living neutrons of coalescing
flame whirling in semi organic pat-
terns were absorbing the energy
pouring into the ship. They were
multiplying in number, growing in
strength. They would ooze forth
through the metal their activity had
decayed, fall on the landing plat-
form and there, subjected to the
intense solar radiation, they would
utterly destroy his station and all
that it meant.

Through the cloying mist form-
ing through his mind the basic pat-
tern of normal conduct was still

able to assert itself. He remem-
bered the public!

Dave stared down incredulously
at the lambent flame eroding the
fresh metal of his armored hands.
He experienced a rising fury that
a sentient bacterium should so fog
his mind. Thalamic rage, instinc-
tive rather than intuitive, surged
through him.

He pulled the steri-gun from its
sheath, pointed its needle muzzle
at the deck, squeezed the grip.
Livid flame struck the deck,
splashed about his feet, tore
through the friable metal, volatilized
girders weakened by disease, tore
through the next deck, fountained
on the one beneath that, burned out
through the ship to volcano on the
metal landing platform, in a burst
of energy that lit up the luna-
scapc.

He looked down through the
gaping hole, turned his tortured
vision to the flaming erosion of his
hand. Slowly, deliberately, as
though he were drunk and had to
carefully reason out each motion,
he transferred the gun, pointed it
at the infected arm and convulsively
fisted the hilt.

There was a long, long moment
of unbearable pain, of agony so
great it taxed his wavering sanity
to experience the tremendous burst
of impulses bombarding his mind.
The dark curtain of shock was
shrouding his brain as he leaped
into the hole he had blasted.

He opened his eyes into instant,
alert consciousness. He turned his
head, integrating himself with his

7)7

POH THE PUBLIC

surroundings. Dr. Nissen with a
corps of nurses were watching
him with that professional detach-
ment which comes from years of
practice. Nissen slowly came over
to his bed, withdrew an infusion
needle from his leg.

Then he experienced the impact
of memory. He raised his arms,
looked down at the right hand. He
had expected it to be there, was
actually surprised to see it. He
flexed the fingers, rubbed their
tips across the coverings of the
bed.

He knew then it was a cleverly
grafted prothesis, as good, well
almost as good, as his own arm and
hand had been.

“How long?’' He was surprised
at the timbre of his voice.

“Three weeks,” Nissen replied.
“We did the surgery at once; kept
you out until we were sure the
grafts took.” *

“Grafts?”

“You burned your feet off with
your steri-pistol.”

“Oh—”

Nissen sat on the edge of the
bed. “We got a classification on
the stuff. It’s an organism, lives
by synargism, derives energy of
existence direct from photonic en-
ergy. It’ll live and multiply on any-
thing with a metallic or electrical
structure.”

“What did you do with the
ship ?”

“We sent it into the sun. You
made quite a name for yourself.
Hero, you know, trying to destroy
yourself for humanity. Nord-
heimer even sent you flowers.
Blackbern sent you a skin. Sorry
about your feet, but you know.
It’s for the public.”

“Yes,” Dave said slowly, feeling
the awkward heaviness of his
prosthetic extremities. “I know.
It’s for the public.”

THE END.

IN TIMES TO COME

Next month, Lewis Padgett begins a. novel with a decidedly different and
interesting motivation: the hero’s efforts are directed toward setting off the
atomic bomb, causing an atomic war, and blowing his civilization to pieces —
for the good of civilization!

It’s a highly interesting and thought-provoking yarn. The essential theme
of the story is, actually, that there are a number of things worse than an atomic
war, and not the least of these under the right — or wrong! — circumstances is
permanent peace !

Also— Willy Ley has a discussion of how much improvement could be made
in V-2 with very little change. It's a highly interesting, detailed analysis of
the physical structure of V-2.

The Editor.

ASTOUNDING SCIENCE-FICTION

BIKINI A AND B

BY JOHN W. CAMPBELL, IR.

Concerning two bomb tests — and the first catalogue of synthetic
atoms ever published! Usually, synthetics are designed to wear
better than natural substitutes, but in atoms, the synthetics are more
valuable because they're poorly made. They break down in a short time!

BIKINI A ANI) H

y»

Tests A and B have been carried
out. The reports on the two
tests carried out at Bikini are
beginning to appear at the time of
writing; the more complete re-
ports will be released later.

However, there follow two items
of atomic interest; first, the official
report to the President, prepared
by the President’s Evaluation
Commission, the second is simply
a price list. This magazine does
not ordinarily function as a cata-
log service, but the particular na-
ture of the commercial products
offered we deemed of sufficient
historical interest to merit publica-
tion. If you’re interested in buy-
ing a few atoms — strictly synthetic,
not as good as the natural kind,
because they don’t wear as well —
the prices are listed ' below.

In addition to the official Evalua-
tion Commission report, some de-
gree of background to understand-
ing of the atomic explosion is
needed. There is an inherent differ-
ence l>etween the explosion of
20,000 tons of. TNT and the explo-
sion of an atomic bomb — one news-
paper report said 3.5 pounds of
plutonium, but my personal guess-
timate is that that’s low, by a factor
of 'about 3 — as mentioned in the
official evaluation report; TXT
doesn’t produce, in sea water, the
equivalent of hundreds of tons of
radium. Some other vital differ-
ences are not mentioned.

For a moment, let’s shrink to an
atomic viewpoint, and look at a
piece of steel, a piece of diamond,
and a droplet of mercury. From

:<>o

the vantage-point of atomic-size
vision, the piece of steel consists of
roughly . spherical things arranged
in rows, files, and columns, for the
interatomic forces in the steel
molecules — actually iron molecules
— are binding the atoms into
crystals. Free outer-orbit elec-
trons drift from atom to atom — the
conductivity electrons of the metal,
that permit it to carry electricity.

I f we start moving in on these
atoms, however, their appearance
changes. The electrons in an atom
do not move in orbits, one behind
the other like sausages on a string.
Modern theory indicates the elec-
trons in the atom form shells of
electric and other forces about the
nucleus — strange shells which, if
pricked, suddenly collapse into the
familiar electron particle. These
clouds of electron shells about the
atomic nucleus are, in the view of
a nucleus, about as solid as a
cumulus cloud — they’ll stop light,
and will bounce back something as
light as another electron, but they
are no more obstacles to a fast-
moving nucleus than a heavy cumu-
lus cloud is to a B-29.

The trouble with these tenuous
electron clouds is that, like the
famous clouds of the India-China
Hump route, the clouds have rocks
in ’em. The atomic nucleus is
small, but extremely dense and
massive. (The density runs up to
the unimaginable heights ap-
proached by collapsed matter in
the heart of a dwarf star.)

For a moment, let’s watch the
atomic reaction between a stray
neutron — released somewhere by

A 8 T O r M » I N o HCIKXCK- FICTION

an accidental cosmic ray — and a
U-235 or Pu-239 atom. The neu-
tron, driving along at a modest
10, 000 miles a second, drives
through the electron cloud of a
carbon atom in the steel, hits the
carbon nucleus, and bounces vio-
lently. A nucleus is the most
rigid, most powerful structure of'
force in the known universe —
except for the ultimate rigidity of
,the nucleons, the protons and neu-
trons, that make it up.

The recoiling neutron bounces
away, and heads toward the mass
of U-235 atoms inside the steel
case. It plows through the electron
cloud of one atom, unaffected by
the ghostly electrons. It misses
that nucleus — and a hundred more —
before it makes a dead-center hit
on a tiny uranium nucleus buried
deep in its electron cloud. The
force of the blow doesn’t damage
the U-235 nucleus, or even in-
convenience that enormously rigid
structure.

But the rigidity of the uranium
nucleus is a strange thing. The
nucleus of an atom is like a drop
of water on a greasy surface,
rounded up by surface tension.
The nucleus is held together bv
surface tensionlike forces, highly
elastic forces of such enormous
magnitude that they constitute
practical rigidity — to most things.

But just as a water droplet on
a greasy surface will, if it touches
a chip of soap, wet, then ingest it,
so the uranium nucleus will “wet”
the neutron that touches it.

The violence of the blow does
not matter ; a uranium nucleus can

BIKINI A ASP B

stand the terrific violence at the
heart of an atomic bomb without
inconvenience. If the nucleus is
struck a direct blow by a fission-
product nucleus driving with a
force of 70,000,000 electron volts,
the two nuclei, simply bounce, the
“unstable” uranium nucleus quite
undamaged. .

The one thing that does matter
is that a neutron is a type of force-
field that a uranium nucleus will
wet, and so incorporate into it-
self.

Immediately, the ingested neu-
tron causes acute indigestion. The
neutron is, because it has mass, a
packet of energy. In absorbing it.
the uranium nucleus has absorbed
a huge quantity of energy, an
amount of energy which appears as
a violent rhythmic pulsation of the
water-droplike uranium nucleus, as
it tries to readjust itself to the
new situation.

Actually, a U-235 atom which
absorbs a neutron can readjust
successfully. If the nucleus does
so successfully, instead of fission-
ing, the U-235 nucleus discharges
a gamma ray quantum of about
4,000,000 volt energy, representing
the unassimilable excess of energy
the absorption of the neutron
added, and settles down as a
reasonably stable U-236 nucleus.

Most U-235 nuclei do not suc-
ceed in reaching stability. Instead,
the violent pulsations become more
violent, and abruptly the nucleus
explodes, breaks in two. For an
infinitesimal instant, -the raw inte-
rior of an atomic nucleus is exposed

m

interatomic space. The fright-
ful concentration of raw, unstable
-energies inside radiates tremendous
and violent gamma radiation. The
exposed parts of the nucleus allow
the terrific electric repulsions to
take effect, and the two parts of
the nucleus explode away from
each other with colossal violence —
and the momentarily broken surface
film of the nucleus Snaps shut again
across the wound — but now there
are two nuclei exploding out-
ward.

Neither of the two newly cre-
ated nuclei is stable. Each has too
much mass in proportion to the
positive charge of the nucleus — too
many neutrons in proportion to its
protons. As the new nuclei drive
away, they are spitting electrons
violently, getting rid of their still-
excessive energies in high-speed
electron emission, and by throwing
out gamma radiation simultane-
ously. At the same time, one of
them may balance up by discharging
a neutron — perhaps two, or even
three. The other may, by chance,
balance itself by discharging
nothing but electrons, one after
another until seven or eight have
been fired out. On the statistical
average, however, slightly more
than two neutrons are discharged
for each fission.

The discharged nuclei, and the
discharged gamma radiation, don’t
see steel and diamond and mercury
as we do. To them, each material
is a vague cloud of electrons, with
rocks in ’em. The electrons do not
count to such particles — only the
nuclei are of importance. The re-

102

suit is the strange fact that, to the
atomic bomb, diamonds are softer
than steel, and steel softer than
liquid mercury. Mercury nuclei
are very massive, very hard to
knock out of the way ; iron atoms
are lighter, and more readily
shoved aside, while the light car-
bon atoms of diamond are like
weeds to a bulldozer. Further-
more, the high density of mercury
means that more atomic mass per
cubic centimeter is going to be ki
the way, making mercury hard stuff
to penetrate.

But obviously, no material
whatsoever, now or forever in the
future, can stop the force of an
atomic blast. The only thing that
can stop atomic particles is pure
force — the terrific force-fields of
a nucleus can, and do. But no
wall of nuclei can exist; they can-
not be brought into contact both
because of the enormous electrical
repulsions, and because the nuclei
would, like drops of water, “wet"
each other, and flow into one super-
colossal, hyperexplosive atom.

No material whatsoever, now or
in the future, can stop atomic
radiation — gamma rays — either, for
the same reason. Lead is not
opaque to gamma radiation, nor
is any other material, for the simple
reason that gamma ray quanta are
of the same order of size and
energy as atomic particles. They,
like particles, see the ordinary
atom as a vague cloud of ghostly
electrons surrounding very rare,
very tiny nuclei. Gamma rays
shine through such a cloud just as
light shines through ordinary cumu-

ASTOUNDING SCIENCE-FICTION

International News Photo

Test Baker at Bikini. The perfect geometrical form of the burst
results as a visible plot of all points distant from the point of burst
by the speed of shock wave timed the elapsed time since the burst.
The white ring in the lagoon is the water shock wave — it sank the
ships. The white dome is condensed moisture behind the air shock
wave, a Titanic Wilson Cloud Chamber effect.

lus clouds: a thick enough layer of
clouds will so obscure the sun as
to make a day almost as dark as
night, and similarly a thick, leaden
cloud of atoms will absorb nearly
all the gamma radiation.

The strength of any ordinary
material lies ih the intermolecular
bonds: the bonds of chemical

molecules depend on the interaction
of the outermost electrons of the
elements involved. Since an atomic
particle finds those electrons mere
ghosts, practically nonexistent, the
energy represented by any ordinary

chemical bond is effectively zero.
That is, if an atomic bomb were to
go off in the midst of 100 tons of
TNT, the fact that the carbon,
hydrogen, oxygen and nitrogen
atoms were linked as TNT mole-
cules, rather than being air, water
and coal, would make no detectable
difference. In either case, all the
atoms would be so blasted that all
would be converted to incandescent
gas. The previous chemical
arrangement of the molecules would
be as meaningless as the question
of whether or not a mousertap

BIKINI A AND B

ins

had been cocked and ready to snap
before a 16-inch naval shell hit it.

In turn, the question of whether
or not the 16-inch shell hit it would
be meaningless if an atomic bomb
went off ; both the shell and the
mousetrap would be reduced to
incandescent ions.

Some of the reports that have
come out of Bikini indicate that
18-inch steel armor stopped ten
percent of the gamma radiation of
the bomb. Inverting this interest- -
ing statistic to its more natural
form makes it more meaningful;
ninety percent walked right on
through. If ninety, percent of the
incident shells canie through, it
wouldn't be termed armor. '

Actually, inadequate armor
against gamma rays can be more
dangerous than none at all. The
United States X’avy has long prac-
ticed a philosophy of all-or-nothing
in armoring against shells. That is,
a battleship carries 16-inch thick-
armor plate, over vital parts, and no
armor at all over other parts. The
reason is simple ; 8-inch armor ~
plate, if struck by a 16-inch shell,
simply disintegrates into great,
jagged. 8-inch chunks of shrapnel.
Light plate of mild steel is bet-
ter; a shell will puncture that,
maybe tear it up like a crumpled
tin can, but won't make shrapnel
of it.

With high-energy gamma radia-
tion, a quite similar phenomenon
appears. At the General Electric
laboratories in Schenectady, they
have a gadget called a betatron —
which had been discussed in these
10-1

pages sohie years ago, and has been
used in stories. At G.E., it is
performing remarkable, and impor-
tant research, as a super-power
X-ray generator, providing 100,-
000,000 volt X rays. In the early
testing with this instrument, Dr.
E. E. Charlton, in charge of the
X-ray work at G.E., made a highly
interesting little experiment.

A piece of X-ray film was placed
before the betatron, and half the
plate shielded l>ehind inch-thick
blocks of solid lead, the other half
exposed directly — save for the,
light-tight wrappings — to the beam
of X rays. The exposures made,
and the plate developed, the
researchers found, as expected,
that half the plate was blackened
completely; the other half prac-
tically untouched. Also, as they
exacted — and you may not have ! —
the blackened half was behind the
lead shield, the clear section was
the part directly exposed to the
beam.

The j^ason for this strange
reversal of things?

Simple. Lead isn’t opaque- to
X rays — or gamma rays as they
are called when manufactured by
radioactive atoms — but merely a
dense cloud. With 100,000,000
volt rays — or any really high volt-
age rays — the energy of the radia-
tion quantum is so high that it
tends to smash its way through
atoms without causing much ioniza-
tion. without, in other words, giving
up much energy. The original rays
smashed through the exposed film
so easily that they didn’t even give
up energy enough to cause blacken-

A NTOU X in X ii SC lEN'CE-FICT 1 OX

ing. Like a high-velocity bullet
smashing through a glass window,
they made a neat, small hole that
didn’t crack the sensitive sur-
face.

But the lead was dense enough
to offer serious opposition to even
such high-intensity rays as those
from the betatron. The 100,000.-
000 volt rays, passing near lead
nuclei, would be trapped by the
strange pair-formation phenome-
non; the energy of the radiation
would be suddenly converted to an
electron-positron pair, the two
charged particles smashing off with
kinetic energy equal to the radia-
tion energy minus the 1 .000,000
volts needed to create an electron
and a positron. The pair would
smash their way through the lead,
and because they are light, charged
particles, would cause a terrific stir
and confusion among the lead
electrons — and that stir and confu-
sion is precisely what creates X
rays.

In essence, the lead acts as a sort
of transformer; 100,000,000 volt
rays go in, and are stepped down
to perhaps 1.000.000 volt rays. But
energy balances are at work ; there
will be 100 times as much 1.000,-
000 volt X ray for each 100,000,000
volt ray ! Naturally the photo-
graphic plate behind the lead
“shield” is blasted completely black
by that terrific gout of secondary
radiation.

Inadequate shielding — because it
gives off floods of secondary
radiation — is worse than none at
all!

“Adequate,” incidentally, can be

bikini A ASP B

defined, in the case of gamma rays
from atomic bombs as three feet
of solid lead. Two feet of gold,
platinum, or osmium would do,
too. They make fine ray stoppers,
since they’re even denser than lead.
Unfortunately they are a bit more
costly.

Of course, while that lead shield-
ing would stop the gamma rays, it
wouldn't be there at all if the bomb
went off very close ; it would
simply vanish as stripped nuclei
and free electrons in the 100.000,-
000° heat of the atomic bomb. And
if the blast wave hit the lead,
it would be crushed back on the
“protected” personnel. Further-
more, you will notice that the
Evaluation Commission reports that
the equivalent of several hundred
tons of radium was created in the
water of the lagoon by the under-,
water test. How long you could
stay behind your safe, three- foot
lead shield would determine
whether or not you could outlast
the radioactivity of the debris.

Actually, there are two impor-
tant kinds of radioactivity; one is
the radioactivity of the fission
product nuclei, and of the water
and salts of the ocean, caused by
direct contact with the bomb. The
second and even more inescapable
type is the radioactivity generated
in -the steel of the ships themselves
by the enormously . high-energy
gamma rays, and by the neutrons
escaping from the uranium fission
reaction. Ordinary light can, when
it strikes a' metallic surfece, blast
loose an electron — the familiar
105

The submarine Skate appeared an utter wreck after Test Able, but
this close-up reveals interesting contrast. The tangled scrap that
is so evident was mere outer shell; notice that the massive fittings
of the pressure hull are undistorted. The bomb’s pressure wave
reached 500 pounds per square inch — a “normal” pressure for a deep-
diving submarine.

100 A NT or X I > IN (» S C 1 K N t' K -FICTION

photoelectric effect on which tele-
vision tubes are based, and the
electric eyes of commerce. But
gamma rays, because of their enor-
mously higher energy, can actually
blast nuclear particles out of the
nucleus, by a similar photoelectric
— or gamma-electric — effect. Thus
iron ajoms struck by extremely
high-intensity gamma rays can be-
come radioactive. Many types of
atoms undergo such changes.
Since the rays from the bomb are
of extremely high energy, and in
immense quantity, large-scale radio-
activation of material '‘xposed to the
radiation can result.

There would be some hope of
flushing off radioactive salts from
the decks of ships deluged with
radioactive water if clean water
were available — but you can't flush
off radioactive atoms actually buried
in the structure of the ship.

Also, at Bikini, the Navy
tried some bewildering — if not
bewildered ! — methods of reducing
radioactivation of ships. The
destroyer Hughes was deluged with
foamite fire extinguisher com-
jxmnd. The exact idea behind this
move is not clear. Presumably it
was realized by the officer in charge
of the trial that radioactivity is not
a fire that can be quenched, and
that foamite doesn't have density
enough to seriously interfere with
escaping radiation. Also, since
foamite is specifically designed to
stick and cling to surfaces, thus
holding itself on, and smothering,
ordinary fires — it is made up of
rather gooey, adhesive components
— it could be expected to retain

BIKINI A AND K

radioactive salts in place, rathter
than washing them away.

One psychological point of
considerable interest is worth add-
ing. When Admiral Blandy first
reported the Baker Day test results
— a report made a few hours after
the test, before the Saratoga's
triple- walled hull had gone down
— he stated that three ships had
been sunk; the Arkansas, a con-
crete oil barge> and an LST. The
interesting point is that no mention
was made of the LSM 60, the 200-
foot craft from which the atomic
lx>mb was suspended. It was so
completely and generally under-
stood that nothing actually near
the bomb had the faintest chance of
survival that the admiral did not
think to mention that the LSM 60
had ceased to exist.

But suppose the bomb had been
suspended beneath the Saratoga ?
The 42.000 ton Sara, for all her
triple-hulled construction, and im-
mense weight, would have been
disintegrated as completely as the
little LSM 60 — and it’s rather
fascinating to consider what mon-
strous shrapnel a 42,000 ton ship
would constitute as it dropped back
in fragments from the mile-high
peak of the water column.

What, for instance, would have
happened to the .\V?c York if one
of the Sara’s giant turbine rotors
dropped on her deck from five
thousand feet up?

In any case, it’s interesting to
see what a single bomb, a quarter
mile from the nearest ship, can do
to a naval fleet. One battleship
sank so swiftly there seems to be

107

no certainty of just how long it
did take, a triple-hulled super-
carrier gone in a few hours, and
another modern battleship hull in
a few days.

The accompanying photographs
give a rather good feeling, I think,
of the stark futility of attempting
to make any hull immune, or even
markedly resistant, to the atomic
bomb. The Navy’s toys floating on
the ruffled surface of the sea. tossed
as carelessly as model boats by the
atomic giant.

As we have said before, the only
de tense against atomic bombs is to
be where the bombs aren’t. The
President’s Evaluation Commission
puts the same thought in more
official language — distance is the
only defense.

Admiral Blandy has commented
that this atomic attack is not merely
a mechanical attack on the ships,
but a sort of poison warfare
against .the crews. To date, the
atomic bomb lias never been al-
lowed to exert its full mechanical
{lower, since neither the airburst,
nor the shallow underwater burst,
gave the bomb sufficient resistance*
to work against. Damage to
structures must lie mechanical,
since they are insensitive to gamma
radiation, and it is enormously
more difficult — in terms of energy
— to fuse a steel beam than to twist
it into a pretzel. The original
Hiroshima and Nagasaki bombs
were air-burst bombs, because air-
burst was the most effective way
to damage lightly built structures,
and attack a city.

n*8

For effective damage against
heavily built structures, such as
ships, some medium less adapted to
cushioning shocks than a pneumatic
pillow — the 'atmosphere- — would be
desirable. The shallow-water burst
simply pushed a few million tons
of water out of its way- — ten mil-,
lion, according to the report — and
thus expended most of its mechani-
cal energy in the air. ,

The following material is the
official preliminary evaluation re-
port :

Preliminary Report Follow-
ing the Second Atomic
Bomb Test

Report by the Joint Chiefs of
Staff Evaluation Board for
the Atomic Bomb Tests

30 July 1946

In compliance with your directive
of 27 February 1946, the Evalua-
tion Board presents - a second
preliminary report of the atomic
bomb tests held at Bikini Atoll.

Section I

Supplement to Preliminary Report
on Test "A"

In general, the observations on
ship damage presented by this
hoard in its first report were con-
firmed by engineering surveys.

Asror.vni-N » s <; i r, x r e- ki ct i o x

The location of the bomb burst,
accurately determined from photo-
graphs, was such that only one
ship was within 1,000 feet of the
surface point over which the bomb
exploded. There were about 20
ships within half a mile, all of
which were badly damaged, many
being put out of action and five
sunk. It required up to 12 days
to repair all of those ships left
afloat sufficiently so that they could
have steamed under their own
power to a major base for repair.

It is now possible to make some
estimate of the radiological injuries
which crews would have suffered
had they been aboard Test “A”
target vessels. Measurements of
radiation intensity and a study of
animals exposed in ships show that
the initial flash of principal lethal
radiations, which are gamma rays
and neutrons, would have killed
almost all personnel normally sta-
tioned aboard the ships centered
around the air burst and many
others at greater distances. Person-
nel protected by steel, water, or
other dense materials would have
been relatively safe in the outlying
target vessels. The effects of
radiation exposure would not have
incapacitated all victims imme-
diately. even some of the most
severely affected might have re-
mained at their stations several
hours. Thus it is possible that
initial efforts at damage control
might have kept ships operating,
but it is clear that vessels within
a mile of an atomic bomb air burst
would eventually become inopera-
tive due to crew casualties.

Section II

Observotions on Test "B"

The Board divided into two
groups for the ^observation of
Test “B.” Four members, after
surveying the target array from the
air, witnessed the explosion from
an airplane eight miles away at an
altitude of 7500 feet. The other
three members bisected the target
array from a small boat the day
before the test and observed the
bomb's explosion from the deck of
the USS Haven. 1 1 miles at sea to
the east of the burst.

The Board reassembled on the
Haven , on 26 July, and the mem-
bers have since examined photo-
graphs, data on radioactivity, and
reports of other phenomena, and
have inspected some of the target
vessels. They have also consulted
with members of the Task Force
Technical Staff.

As scheduled, at- 0835 Bikini
time on 25 July, a bomb was deto-
nated well below the surface of the
lagoon. This bomb was suspended
from LSM-60, near the center of :
•the target array. The explosion
was of predicted violence and- is
estimated to have been at least as
destructive as 20.000 toils of
TXT.

To a degree which the Board
finds remarkable, the visible phe-
nomena of explosion followed the
predictions made by civilian and
service phenomenologists attached
to Joint Task Force One. At the
moment of explosion, a dome,
which showed the light of incandes-
cent material within, rose upon the

BIKINI A AND B

100

sflSface of the lagoon. • The blast
was followed by an opaque cloud
which rapidly enveloped about half
of the target . array. The cloud
vanished in about two seconds to
reveal, as predicted, a column of
ascending water. From some of the
photographs it appears that this
column lifted the 26,000-ton battle-
ship for a brief interval before the
vessel plunged to the bottom of the
lagoon. Confirmation of this
occurrence must await the analy-
sis of high-speed photographs
which are not yet available.

The diameter of the column of
water was about 2200 feet, and it
rose to a height of about 5500 feet.
Spray rose to a much greater
height. The column contained
roughly ten million tons of water.
For several minutes after the
column reached maximum height,
water fell hack, forming an expand-
ing cloud of spray which engulfed
about half of the target array.
Surrounding the base of the column
was a wall of foaming water
several hundred feet high.

Waves outside the water column,
about 1000 feet from the center of
explosion, were SO to 100 feet in
height. These waves rapidly
diminished in size as they pro-
ceeded outward, the highest wave
reaching the beach of Bikini Island
being seven feet. Waves did not
pass over the island, and no
material damage occurred there.
Measurements of the underwater
shock \yave are not yet available.
There were no seismic phenomena
of significant magnitude.

The explosion produced intense

radioactivity in the waters of the
lagoon. Radioactivity immediately
after the hurst is estimated to have
been the equivalent of many hun-
dred- tons of radium. A few min-
utes exposure to this intense radia-
tion at its peak would, within a
brief interval, have incapacitated
human beings and have resulted in
their death within days or weeks.

Great quantities of radioactive
water descended upon the ships
from the column or were thrown
over them by waves. This highly
lethal radioactive water consti-
tuted such a hazard that after four
days it was still unsafe for inspec-
tion parties, operating within a
well-established safety margin, to
spend any useful length of time at
the center of the target area or to
board ships anchored there.

As in Test “A,” the array of tar-
get ships for Test “B” did not
represent a normal anchorage but
was designed instead to obtain the
maximum data from a single explo-
sion. Of the 84 ships and small
craft in the array, 40 were an-
chored within one mile and 20
within about one-half mile. Two
major ships were sunk, the battle-
ship ihkansas immediately and the
heavy-hulled aircraft carrier Sara-
toga after 7/ 2 hours. A landing
ship, a landing craft, and an oiler
also sank immediately. The
destroyer Hughes , in sinking condi-
tion, and the transport Falcon,
badly listing, were later beached.
The submerged submarine A pogon
was sent to the bottom emitting air
hubbies and fuel oil, and one to
three other submerged submarines

m

ASTI) V X 1)1 X (5 SOI K X V E - V I CT I OX

International News Photo

The furious blaze of atomic light blasts through the clouds over

Bikini on Able Day.

are believed to have sunk. Five
days after the burst, the badly
damaged Japanese battleship A 'a-
(jafo sank. It was found im-
possible immediately to assess
damage to bulls, power plants and
machinery of the target ships be-
cause of radioactive contamination.
Full appraisal of damage will have
to await detailed smvey by engi-
neer teams. External observation
from a safe distance would indi-
cate that a few additional ships near
the target center may have suf-
fered some hull damage. There
was no obvious damage to ships

more than one-half mile from the
burst.

Section III

Observations and Conclusions,
Both Tests

The operations of Joint Task
Force One in conducting the tests
have set a pattern for close, effec-.
tive co-operation of the Armed
Services and civilian scientists in
the planning and execution of this
highly technical operation. More-
over, the tests have provided
valuable training of personnel in

HI KIN' I A AND H •

111

joint operations requiring great
precision and co-ordination of
effort.

It is impossible to evaluate an
atomic burst in terms of conven-
tional explosives. As to detona-
tion and blast effects, where the
largest bomb of the past was
effective within a radius of a few
hundred feet, the atomic bomb’s
effectiveness can be measured in
thousands of feet. However, the
radiological effects have no paral-
lel in conventional weapons. It is
necessary that a conventional bomb
score a direct hit or a near miss
of not more than a few feet to
cause significant damage to a
battleship. At Bikini the second
bomb, bursting under water, sank
a battleship, immediately at a dis-
tance of well over 500 feet. It
damaged an aircraft carrier so that
it sank in a few hours, while an-
other battleship sank after five days.
The first bomb, bursting in air, did
great harm to the superstructures
of major ships within a half-mile
radius, but did only minor damage
to their hulls. No ship within a
mile of either burst could have
escaped without some damage to it-
self and serious injury to a large
number of its crew.

Although lethal results might
have been more or less equivalent,
the radiological phetiomena'accom-
panying the two bursts were
markedly different. In the case of
the air-burst bomb, it seems cer-
tain that unprotected personnel
within one mile would, have suf-
fered high casualties by intense neu-
tron and gamma radiation as well as

112

by blast and heat. Those surviv-
ing immediate effects would not
have been menaced by radioactivity
persisting after the burst.

In the case of the underwater
explosion, the air-burst wave was
far less intense and there was no
heat wave of significance. More-
over, because of the absorption of
neutrons and gamma rays by water,
the lethal quality of the first flash
of radiation was not of high order.
But the second bomb threw large
masses of highly radioactive water
onto the decks and into the hulls
of vessels. These contaminated
ships became radioactive stoves,
and would have burned all living
things aboard them with invisible
and painless but deadly radiation.

It is too soon to attempt an
analysis of all of the implications
of the Bikini tests. But it is not
too soon to point to the necessity
for immediate and intensive re-
search into several unique problems
]x>sed by the atomic bomb. The
poisoning of large volumes of water
presents such a problem. Study
must be given to procedures for
protecting not only ships’ crews
but also the populations of cities
against such radiological effects a§
were demonstrated in Bikini la-
goon.

Observations dicing the two
tests have established the general
types and range of effectiveness of
air and shallow underwater atomic-
bomb bursts on naval vessels, army
materiel, including a wide variety
of Quartermaster stores, and
personnel. From these observa-
tions and from instrumental data

ASTOUNDING* SCIENCE- FICTION

it will now be possible to outline
such changes, not only in military
and naval design but also in strategy
and tactics, as future events may
indicate.

L. H. BRERETON
B. DEWEY
T. F. FARRELL
J. H. HOOVER
R. A. OFSTIE

J. W. STILWELL

K. T. COMPTON, CHAIRMAN

* * * * *

The second item of interest is
reproduced in photostat form, a
copy of the original mimeographed
price list of the National Atomic
works at Clinton. Appearing in
the article department today, it
would be obvious and very care-
fully worked out science-fiction
only five years ago. Remember
Lester del Rey’s yarn “Nerves”?
This item might have been one of
the price lists from such a plant.

Today, it offers isotopes for sale
to accredited research institutes
and laboratories. A bit of explana-
tion may make it clearer to the noil-
atomic specialists. The reactions
symbolized as (n, y) aren’t per-
haps intelligible to a biochemist, or
an aerodynamicist. _

The six most important types of
transmutation reactions involve the
principal atomic particles and
gamma radiation in various types of
exchange reactions. If a neutron
enters an atomic nucleus, some-
thing usually comes out. The en-
trance of the neutron adds a huge
amount of energy to the nucleus;
to balance itself under the new
conditions, it may discharge a

BIKINI A AND fc

proton immediately, and undergo
further change at a later time.
Thus if a nitrogen nucleus _of
atomic weight 14 absorbs a neu-
tron, it immediately discharges a
proton. Since the proton and
neutron have about* the same
weight, the new nucleus also has
an atomic weight of 14 — but the
positive charge of the proton be-
ing removed, the new nucleus is
one atomic number lower on the
scale— carbon. This reaction is
symbolized (n, p), meaning sim-
ply neutron in, proton out.

The resultant C 14 is an impor-
tant unstable isotope ; since the
only stable atomic nucleus of mas&
14 is nitrogen, the C 14 later re-
converts itself to the stable form
of N 14- by discharging an electron
from the nucleus. This, of course,
puts us back where we started —
but in the meantime we have a
carbon atom which can be used as
a tracer in biochemical reactions.
Furthermore, C 14 is only mildly
unstable, and has a half-life greater
than 1000 years,, so that a sample
of C 14 can be used for generations
without noticeable reduction of its
potency.

The exact reverse of this type of
reaction is the (p, n) reaction,
wherein a proton is driven into a
nucleus, and a neutron driven out,
This reaction is also used to pro-
duce a radioactive carbon isotope,
but starting with boron. In this,
the reaction is B u + P — C 11 + n -
The “p” standing for proton can
be interpreted as H— a hydrogen
nucleus. C 11 is radioactive, because
the R n isotope is the natural, stable
m

International News Photo

The shape of this Baker Day burst is unsuited to our pages, but
close examination will show the six hundred foot high wall of foam-
ing water at the base of the column. This deluged ships with
radioactivity. The shock wave, not visible in this shot, sank ships.

nucleus oi mass 11. .and represents
the most, efficient way of arranging
nuclear particles totaling 1 1 in
number. The C" is a very
considerably less stable arrange-
ment, and the half-life is only 21
minutes, the change taking place
by emission of a positron, thus
decreasing the ]>ositive charge on
the nucleus by one unit. Again, it
goes back to boron.

Some of the early artificial radio-
activity work involved alpha-
particle induced transmutations,
symbolized as (a, n) or (a, p)
— alpha in-neutron out or alpha
in-proton oiit.

The fourth main type of
transmutation reaction involves
gamma radiation — that gamma ray
photoelectric effect. It is symbol-
ized as (y. n) and (y, p).

Deuteron reactions are impor-
tant because cyclotrons can readily
accelerate the deuteron, but have

114

a hard time finding a handle on
the uncharged neutron. These
deuteron reactions are symbolized
id. n) and (d. p). There are
also ( n, a) ( p, a) and (d, a)
reactions of lesser importance.

The simplest of all the reactions
of transmutation is the direct cap-
ture of a neutron. Since this adds
'energy to the absorbing nucleus,
gamma rays usually emerge, carry-
ing the excess energy. This is
symbolized ( n, y). and is one of
the most important of all new. The
uranium pile is characterized by
an atmosphere of neutrons; there
are stupendous numbers of free
neutrons, of all velocities, inside
the pile. Under such circum-
stances. neutron reactions are the
easiest ones, and most of the
synthetic isotopes are prepared by
the neutron capture reaction.

Frequently a given isotope can
be prepared by two different

• v «; SCIENCE- FICTION

transmutations — perhaps an (n, p)
reaction with the next element up
the scale, or an (n, y) reaction
with a lighter isotope of the de-
sired element. A third possi-
bility might be a (p, y) with a
■heavy isotope of the next lighter
element. Of these three, the
(n, y) would be the choice now,
because (n, y) reactions go easier
than (n, p) reactions, and the
atomic pile supplies quantities of
neutrons.

The result of these facts is that
those synthetics made by (n, y)
reactions are cheaper and more
plentiful than those made by the
more difficult (n, p) reaction.
Specifically, notice the difference
in price between C 14 , the product
of an (n, p) reaction on N 14 and
1 131 , product of an (n, y) re-
action.

However, some (n, p) reactions
are easy ones; the difficulty varies
from atomic type to type. Another
factor that tends to cause confu-
sion and difference in pricing is
the quantity of material needed to
produce a given number of radio-
active disintegrations per second.
If an isotope has a half life of 1000
years, it will, obviously, take a
very great number of atoms to pro-
duce 1000 transmutations per sec-
ond. If the half life is ten min-
utes, a relatively small number of
atoms will produce 1000 explosions
per second.

Since the radioactive material’s
primary interest is its radioactivity,
the isotopes are sold by the
millicurie — a unit of radioactivity

rather than a unit of weight or
volume. Potassium is radioactive
naturally, due to the presence of
K 40 to the extent of .012%. But
it takes hundreds of pounds of
potassium to represent 1 millicurie,
because the half life of K 40 is many
billions of years. On the other
hand, radon, with a half life of 3.5
days, and 100% radioactive, if
handled by the millicurie is an
exceedingly minute quantity.

In judging the price of the iso-
topes, bear in mind that the pur-
chase of some C 14 is a capital
investment; it’ll really stay with
you! It’s good for at least 3000
years, by which time it will be
reduced to 12.5% of its original
strength, and still perfectly usable.
But the Na 24 listed is a current-
expense item ; it has a half life of
14.8 hours.

Finally, another important fac-
tor in cost is whether the synthetic
atoms are made by the most un-
usual and most interesting of all
transmutation reactions, the one
that might best be symbolized as
an (n, *) reaction — the neutron-
and-go-bang reaction of uranium.
The fission products of the uranium
reaction in the pile can not, of
course, be overlooked as they are
the greatest — and easiest — source
of radioactive isotopes.

In a previous issue wc showed
the mechanics of making and sepa-
rating atomic isotopes by inserting
material into the pile; the separa-
tion of fission products from the
uranium reacting in the pile has
not been shown to the public as
yet.

BIKINI A AND »

AST— 5L 115

ISOTOPES BRANCH, RESEARCH DIVISION, MANHATTAN
DISTRICT

P. O. Box E, OAK RIDGE, TENN.

RADIOISOTOPES
available from

Clinton Laboratories, Monsanto Chemical Co..

P. O. Box 1991, Knoxville, Tenn.

PRICE LIST

as approved 28 June 1946 by

The District Engineer, Manhattan District, Oak Ridge, Tenn.
(Prices subject to change)

Table numbers in this list and Science article (14 June) are the same.

How to estimate cost:

1. No. of units* desired

2. Price per unit

3. Total (1X2) *

4. For each request add the following

handling and administrative charge $ 25.00

5. Cost of material (3 + 4) $ .

6. Deposit on shipping container **

7. Total amount of remittance (5 + 6) $

AH transportation costs including return of container will be paid by
requester.

* The units (as shown in the headings of each table) are: 1 mtcrocurie

1 uiillicuric

. or 1 sample (irradiation unit)

The curie is defined for purposes of this list as 3.7 x lO 10 disintegrations/sec. occurring m the active
element. All methods by which a given isotope disintegrates are included.

** A deposit will be required on returnable shipping containers used for transportation of gamma
ray emitters. A demurrage charge may be made for containers retained longer thar. the period pro-
vided for in the “Agreement and Conditions for Order and Receipt of Radioactive Materials.”

11 «

ASTOUNDING SCIENCE-FICTION

TABLE 1
Fission Products

Group

Radioisotope

Unit Price
( Per MilHcitrie f

i

( Zr 95 'r*
( Cb 95 i

$ ,67

n

Y 91

1.15 ,

ill

( (.> 143 )*
( Cc 144 i

US

IV

Ba 140

US

V

(’ Sr 89 V'-‘
( Sr 90 )

1.35

VI

( Pr 1.43 )

( Nil 147 )

( 61 147 )+
( Eu 1 56 j
( Eu 155 )

12.51

VI)

Cs 137

134.70

vm

( Ru 103 )

^ Rn 106 )

| T « W )*
( Te 120 )

6.74

I4BLE 2

Fission

Products

f Derived i

rom Table 1)

I

Cb 95

23.09

u

( Ru 103 )*
( Ru 106 )

23,09

vm

( Te 127 )*
( 'IV 129 )

23.09

VI

Pr 143

72.16

VI

Nd 147

72.16

VI

61 147

* Mixture*.

Bil KJ N 1 A AND B

Unit Price
(Per Microcurie)

$ 14.43

117

TABLE 3

See Price Lists of Other Tables

TABLE 4

Radioactive Isotopes producible in pile by (n. y) reactions.

Prices listed are for chemically unprocessed irradiation units,
Ail irradiation unit is one metal can in one of 3 sizes ( 5 cc,
JO cc or 40 cc) dependent upon quantity of target material
required per sample.

Isotope

Estimated

Quantity which may
be in sample**

Cost per
Irradiation Unit
(I can)

Na 24

100

Miilicuries

$ 7.36

P 32

500

“

21.65

S 35”*

10

.13.13

Cl 36

10

Microcuries

84.84

K 42 )

250

Miilicuries

8.89

Ca 41 )*

100

“

)

38.51

Ca 45 )

5

)

S.: 46

1

9.73

Ti 51

1

“

29.33

Cr 51

100

“

13.42

Fc 55 r

( 500 Microcuries

!

Fe 59 )

( i

Millicurie

i

21.30

Co 60

100

Miilicuries

31.03

Ni 59

10

Microcuries

9.73

Cu 64

100

Miilicuries

7.36

Zn 65 )*

( 100

‘ f .

)

Zn 69 )

( 300

)

20.47

Ga 72

100

23.38

Ge 71 )*

( 10

)

Ge 77 )

( 1

“

)

39.03

As 76

100

“

7.36

Se 75

100

“

96.76

Br 82

100

“

7.51

Rb 86

100

20.73

Mo 99

100

“

11.08

Ru 103

10

25.32

Ag 108, 110

100

121.30

Cd 115 (2.8d) (See Footnote 1) 20

“ Short bombardment 26.93

Cd 115 (43d) (See Footnote 2) 1

** Long bombardment 91.65

118

.ASTOUNDING SCIENCE FICTION

TABLE 4 (Continued)

Estimated Cost per

Quantity which may Irradiation Unit

Isotope

be

in sample** (lean)

In 114

10

$ 29.73

Sn 113

1

10.25

Sb 12 2 (See Footnote 3)

100

Millicunes Short

Bombardment

7.36

Sb 124 (See Footnote 4)

8

" Long

10.07

Bombardment

Te 127 )*

Te 129 ) (See Footnote 5)

10

«

44.05

Cs 134

100

u

19.75

Ba 131

10

“

16.19

la 140

100

“

7.36

Ce 141 )*

( 100

“ )

11.26

Ce 143 )

( 25

)

7.36

Pr 142

100

“

Eu 154

100

“

84.35

Ta 1S2

100

10.77

W 185

100

“

28.46

Os 191 )*

( 44

)

29.13

Os 193 )

{ 100

)

39.69

Ir 192, 194

100

“

Au 198

100

7.36

Hg 197 (Sec Footnote 6)

70

“ Short bombardment

32.04

Hg 203, 205 (See Footnote 7)

100

“ Long bombardment

100.17

T1 206

10

13.97

Bi 210

10

“

7.36

Footnotes :

1. Will include about 0.25 me of 43d Cd 115

2. Will include about 20 me of 2.8d Cd 115

3. Will include about 2 me Sb 124

4. Will include 100 me Sb 122

5. Will include Te 1.31 (30 hr) and 1 131 (8 day)

6. Will include about 25 me of Hg 203, 205

7. Will include about 70 me of Hg 197

* Mixtures.

J » Unit quantity may have been revised from published table.

•••This irradiation unit udll also contain approximately 2.5 rac of carrier free F 32 from
transmutation.

BIKINI A AND B

119

TABLE 5

Radioactive Isotopes from Transmutation Reactions.

SEPARATED UNSEPARATED

UNIT PRICE

Estimated Quantity

Price Per

Isotope

Per

Millicurie

Per

Micro curie

Which may be in
Sample

Irradiation
Unit ( 1 can )

C 14
P 32
S 35
Ca 45

$ 367.00
1.09
36.56

$4.01

500 Millicuries
6

$ 255.85 *
26.93

* This unit is a special large can containing approximately 3 lbs. of S.

TABLE 6

Radioactive Isotopes from (n, y) -produced chains

SEPARATED

UNSEPARATED

Estimated: Quantity

Price Per

Unit Price

Which may be in

Irradiation Unit.

Isotope

Per Millicurie

Sample

( 1 can)

As 77

0.7 Millicuries

$ 34.44

Rh 105

10

21.39

Ag 111

10

10.97

I 131

$ 1.69

80

44.02

Cs 131

10

16.02

Pr 143

10

11.26

Au 199

10

7.36

120

ASTOUND INC i

SCIENCE -FICTION

For proper interpretation of the price list, the half lives of the isotopes
listed are naturally of interest. The best figures available are those pub-
lished in 1941. but they are probably fairly good on all but the longest
lived radioisotopes. (The two long-lived isotopes, C 14 and Cl 86 are listed,
respectively, as ‘‘greater than 1000 years” and “much greater than 1000

years. )
Isotope

Half If. re

Price per
Millicurie

C

14

1000 yrs.

$ 367.00

Na

24

14.8 hrs.

0.0736

P

.32

14.3 days

1.09

S

.35

88 days

36.56

C!

.36

1000 yrs.

8484,00

K

42

12.4 hrs.

0.002

Ca

41

No Listing

0.038

Ca

45

180 days

4010.00

Sc

46

85 days

9.73

Ti

51

72 days

29.33

Cr

51

26.5 days

0.13

Fe

55

4 yrs.

42.60

Fe

59

47 days

21.30

Co

60

5.3 yrs.

31.03

Ni

59

36 hrs.

973.00

Cu

64

12.8 hrs.

0.073

Zn

65

250 days

0.20

Zn

69

13.8 hrs.

0.07

Ga

72

14 hrs.

0.23

Ge

71

11 days

3.90

Ge

77

12 hrs.

39.03

As

76

26,8 hrs.

0.0736

As

77

No Listing

49.00

Se

75

48 days

9.67

Br

82

No Listing

7.51

Rb

86

19.5 days

2.07

Mo

99

67 hrs.

1.10

Ru

102

4 hrs.

2.50

Rh

105

46 days

2.13

Ag

108. no

2.3 min.

1.21

Ag 111

22 secs,
7.5 days

1.09

Cd

115

2.8 day isomer

1.35

Cd

115

43 day isomer

91.65

In

114

48 days

1.03

Isotope

Half Lift

Price per
Miilicurie

Sn 113

90 days

10.25

Sb 122

2.8 days

0.07

Sb 124

60 days

1.26

Te 127

9.3 hrs.

Not listed separately

Te 129

72 mins,

4.40

Te 131

30 hrs.

Not listed separately

I 131

8.0 days

1.69

Cs 131

No Listing

1.60

Cs 134

1,7 years

1.97

Ba 131

No Listing

1.62

Ba 140

No Listing

1.35

La 140

31 hrs.

0.74

Ce 141 '

No Listing

0.11

Ce 143

No Listing

0.44

Pr 142

18.7 hrs.

0.073

Pr 143

No Listing

1.26

Eu 154

No Listing

0.84

Ta 182

97 days

0.11

W 185

77 days

0.28

Os 191

No Listing

0.60

Os 193

40 hrs.

0.29

Ir 192

60 days

0.39

Ir 194

19 hrs.

Lists with Ir 192

Au 198

2.7 days

0.07

Au 199

3.3 days

0.73

Hg 197

25 hrs.

0.44

Hg 203

54 days

1.00

Hg 205

No Listing

Lists with Hg 203

T1 206

3.5 yrs.

1.40

Bi 210

12*

5 days

0.73

A STOUNDIN 0 SCtKNOE EI0TIOU

In addition, element 61, which
has no natural, stable isotope, is
available in the form of 61 147 . The
only listing of element 61 in pre-
war tables is simply “Elem. 61?”,
indicating that a synthetic 61
had been prepared by cyclotron
bombardment, but which isotope of
61 it was not certain. It had a
half life of 12.5 hours.

In this respect, 6 1 147 resembles
Pu 239 — it, too, is a synthetic atom,
a man-made isotope of an element
that cannot exist in nature because
it has no stable form. That an
element near the middle of the
table — as 61 147 is — should have no
stable isotope seems remarkable,
but the 6 1 147 listed in the price
schedule is a fission product. If
the uranium fission reaction, which
produces all possible isotopes of all
possible elements near the middle
of the table, does not produce any
stable isotope of element 61 — there
ain't no sich animile.

The statement “No Listing”
under “Half Life” means that
the pre-war tables did not list any
isotope of the particular type

under consideration. For instance,
Ba i3 ° is listed in pre-war tables;
it’s a stable, natural isotope. No
Ba 131 is listed, so its half life isn’t
immediately available. The heavi-
est listed isotope of Barium is
Ba 138 — an 86 minute radioisotope,
which discharges a 1,000, (XX) volt
electron, and a 600,000 volt gamma
ray. But no Ba 140 is listed.

The reason is fairly understand-
able. Working with cyclotrons,
elements can be manufactured only
by the few reactions listed earlier.
The heaviest stable barium isotope
is 138; you’d have to add two
successive neutrons to the same
atom to bring it up to 140—
obviously an inordinately im-
probable trick. Cerium has a stable
isotope Ce 140 — but you’d have to
induce two successive positrons to
leave it to produce Ba 140 , or knock
two successive protons out of the
stable Ce 142 .

Starting with stable isotopes,
there was no way to produce Ba 140
— except by starting with the
semi-stable isotope U 23S , and neu-
tron bombardment.

THE END.

BIKINI A AND B

123

TIME ENOUGH

BT LEWIS PADGETT

The Old ’ Uns lived
in secret — not quite
immortal , but for
five hundred years or
more they’d lived.
But nevertheless
they’d all died at
about one century!

Sam Dyson found the secret of
immortality five hundred years
after the Blowup. Since research
along - such lines was strictly
forbidden, he felt a panicky shock
when the man from Administration
walked into his office and almost
casually told Dyson that im-
mortality was nothing new.

“This is top secret,” the
Administrator said, slapping a par-
cel of manifold sheets on Dyson’s
desk. “Not these papers, of course,
—but what I’m telling you and
what you’re going to see. We
hardly ever let anybody in on the
secret. In your case we’re making
an exception, because you're proba-
bly the only guy who can correlate

124

the necessary field work and know
what the answers to the questions
mean. There are plenty of in-
tangibles in your work, and that's
why you’ve got to handle it person-
ally.”

Dyson’s current assignment,
which had originally interested
him in the problem of immortality,
dealt with artificial intellectual
mutation. He sat back, trying not
to show any particular emotion,
and blinked at the Administra-
tor.

“I thought the Archives — ”

“The Archives are a legend, fos-
tered by propaganda. There ain’t
no Archives. A few scattered arti-
facts, that’s all. Hardly anything

ASTOUNDING SCIENCE-FICTION

survived the Blowup except the
human race.”

And yet the government -controlled
Archives were supposed to be the
source of all modern knowledge!

“This i? all secret, Dyson. You
won’t talk. Sometimes we have to
use mnemonic-erasure on blabber-
mouths, but blabbermouths aren’t
often let in on such private affairs.
You know how to keep your mouth
shut. Tlie truth is. we get our
scraps of pre- Blowup science from
human brains - -certain people who
were alive when the radiations be-
gan to run wild. We keep the Old
’Uns segregated: it’d be dangerous
if the world knew immortals ex-
isted. There’d be a lor of dis-
satisfaction.”

Sweat chilled Dyson's flank.?. He
said, “Of course I’ve heard the
rumors of immortals — ”

“All sorts of legends came out
of the Blowup and the Lost Years.
We’ve issued counterpropaganda to
neutralize the original legend. A
straight denial would have had no
effect at all, We started a whisper-
ing campaign that sure, there were
immortals, but they lived only a few
hundred years, and they were such
screwy mutants they were all in-
sane. That part of the public that
believes rumors won’t envy' the
immortals. As for legends, ever
heard of the Invisible Snake that
was supposed to punish carnal sin ?
It wasn’t till after we rediscovered
the microscope that we identified
the Snake with the spirochete.
You’ll often find truth in myths,
but sometimes it isn’t wise to re-
veal the truth.”

Dyson wondered if Administra-
tion could possibly have found out
about his forbidden research. He
hadn’t known there were im-
mortals ; he’d investigated the
legends, and bis. own work in con-
trolled radiation and mental muta-
tion had pointed the way.

The Administrator talked some
more. Then he advised Dyson to
televise his unde, Roger Peaslee.
“Peaslee’s been to a Home and
seen the Old ’Uns. Don’t look
surprised; of course he was sworn
to silence. But he’)l talk about it
to you now; he knows you’re going
to the — Archives!”

But Dyson felt uneasy until his
visitor had left. Then he called his
unde, who held a high post with
Radioactives, and asked questions.

“It’ll surprise you, I think,”
Peaslee said, with a sympathetic
grin. “You may need psych
conditioning when you get back,
too. It’s rather depressing. Still,
until wc get time travel, there’s no
other way of reaching back to
Blowup days.”

“I never knew — ”

“Naturally. Well, you’ll see
what a Home’s like. There’ll be
an interpreter assigned to give you
the dope. And, as a matter of fact,
it’s good conditioning. You’re
going to Cozy Nook, aren’t you?”

“I think . . . yes, that’s it. There
are several?”

Peaslee nodded.

“You may run into some of your
ancestors there. I know one of
your great-greats is in Cozy Nook.
It’s a funny feeling, to look at and
talk to somebody who five hundred

T1MR KNOT OH

t2P

years ago was responsible for your
birth. But you mustn't let her
know who you are.”

“Why not?”

“It’s a special set-up. The
interpreter will give you the angles.
All sorts of precautions have to be
taken. There’s a corps of psycholo-
gists who work on nothing but the
Homes. You’ll find out. And I’m
busy, Sam. See you when you get
back. I hear you’re getting mar-
ried.”

“That’s right,” Dyson said.
“We’re both government certified,
too.” His smile was slightly
crooked.

“Rebel,” Peaslee said, and broke
the circuit. The image slowly
faded, leaving only a play of pas-
tel colors driving softly across the
screen’s Surface. Dyson sat back
and considered.

Presumably neo-radar had not
discovered his hidden laboratory,
or there would have been trouble.
Not serious trouble, in this
paternalistic administration. Discus-
sions, the semantics of logicians,
and, in the end, Dyson knew that
he would be argued around to the
other side. They could' twist logic
damnably. And, very likely, they
were right. If research in certain
radio-genetic fields had been forbid-
den, the reasons for that step
would hold even heavy water.

Immortality.

Within limits, of course. There
were principles of half-life— of
entropy — nothing lasts forever.
But there were different 3 r ardsticks.
128

It would be immortality by normal
standards.

So, it had been achieved once
before, quite by accident. That
particular accident had left the
planet in insane chaos for hun-
dreds of years, providing a pecu-
liarly unstable foundation for the
new culture that had arisen since.
It was rather like a building con-
structed, without plans, from the
alloys and masonry of an earlier
one. There were gaps and missing
peristyles.

Dyson thumbed through the
manifold sheets on his desk. They
contained guides, problems in his
current research — not the secret
research in the hidden laboratory,
but the gov eminent -approved work
on intellectual mutation. To a lay-
man some of the terms wouldn’t
have meant anything, but Dyson
was a capable technician. Item 2.1:
Check psychopathology of genius-
types in pre-Blowup era, continu-
ing line of investigation toward
current times. . . .

Tie left a transference call for
the interpreter, pulled on a cloak,
and took a glider to Marta Hal-
lam’s apartment. She was drink-
ing mate on the terrace, a small,
fragile, attractive girl who efficiently
put a silver tube in another mate
gourd as soon ‘as she had kissed
Dyson. He sat beside her and
rubbed his forehead with thumb
and forefinger.

“We’ll furlough in a few weeks/’
Marta said. “You work too hard.
I’ll see. that you don’t.”

He looked at her and saw her
against a misty background of a

ASTOUNDING S CIENCK-FJ CTTON

thousand years in the future —
older, of course, but superficial
attractiveness wasn’t imported.

He’d grow older, too. But neither
of them would die. And the

treatment did not cause sterility.
Overcrowding of the planet could
be handled by migration to other
worlds; the old rocket fuels had
already been rediscovered.
Through research in a Home, per-
haps, Dyson guessed.

Marta said, “What are you so
glum about ? Do you want to
marry somebody else?”

There was only one way to an-
swer that. After a brief while,
Dyson grumbled that he hated to
be certified like a bottle of milk.

“You’ll be glad of it after we
have children,” Marta said. “If
our genes had been haywire, we
might have had a string of
freaks.”

“I know. I just don’t like — ”
“Look,” she said, staring at him.
“At worst, we’d have been treated,
to compensate for negative /RH or
anything like that. Or our kids
would have had to be put in an
incubation clinic. A year or two
of separation from them at most.
And worth it, when you figure that
they’d have come out healthy speci-
mens.”

Dyson said cryptically, “Things
would have been a lot easier if
we’d never had the Blowup.”
“Things would have been a lot
easier if we’d stayed unicellular
blobs,” Marta amplified. “You
can’t eat your cake and keep the
soda bicarb on the shelf.”

“A philosopher, eh ? - Never

mind. I’ve got something up my
sleeve — ”

But he didn’t finish that, and
stayed where he was for a while,
drinking mate and noticing how
lovely Marta’s profile was against
the skyline and the immense,
darkening blue above. After a
while the interpreter announced
himself, having got Dyson’s
transference notice, and the two
men went out together into the
chilly night.

Five hundred years before, an
atom was split and the balance of
power blew up. Prior to that time,
a number of people had been play-
ing tug of war with a number of
ropes. Nuclear fission, in effect,
handed those people knives. They
learned how to cut the ropes, and,
too late, discovered that the little
game had been played on the sum-
mit of a crag whose precipitous
sides dropped away to abysmal
depths beneath.

The knife was a key as well. It
opened fantastic new doors. Thus
the Blowup. Had the Blowup been
due only to the atomic blast, man
might have rebuilt more easily,
granting that the planet remained
habitable. However, one of the
doors the key opened led into a
curious, perilous place where physi-
cal laws were unstable. Truth is
a variable. But no one knew how
to vary it until after unlimited
atomic power had been thrown on
the market.

Within limits, anything could
happen, and plenty of things did.
Call it a war. Call it chaos. Call

TIME ENOUGH

127

it the Blowup. Call it a shifting
of a kaleidoscope in which the pat-
terns rearranged themselves con-
stantly. In the end, the status quo
re-established itself. Man chewed
rat bones, but he was an intelligent
animal. When the ground became
solid under his feet again, he began
to rebuild.

Not easily. Hundreds of years
had passed. And very little of the
earlier culture had survived.

When you consider how much of
human knowledge is due to
pyramiding, that’s easier to under-
stand. Penicillin was discovered
because somebody invented a micro-
scope because somebody learned
how to grind lenses because some-
body found out how to make glass
because somebody could make fire.
There were gaps in the chain. An
atomic war would have blown up
the planet or ravaged it, but the
catastrophe would have been quick
— or complete — and if the planet
survived, there would have been
artifacts and records and the
memories of mankind. But the

Blowup lasted for a long time —
time itself was used as a variable
once during that homicidal, suici-
dal, fratricidal struggle — and there
were no records.

Not many, at least. And they
weren’t selective. Eventually cities
rose again, but there were odd
gaps in the science of the new
civilization. Some of those holes
filled themselves in automatically,
and a few useful records were dug
up from time to time, but not many,
and the only real due men had to
the scientific culture of pre-

128

Blowup days was something that
had remained stable through the
variable-truth-atomic cataclysm.

The colloid of the human brain.

Eyewitnesses.

The Old 'Uns in the secret, segre-
gated Homes, who had lived for
five centuries and longer.

Will Mackenzie, the interpreter,
was a thin, rangy, freckled man of
forty, with the slow, easy motions
one automatically associated with a
sturdier, plumper physique. His
blue eyes were lazy, his voice was
soothing, and when Dyson fum-
bled at the unaccustomed uniform,
his helpful motions were lazily
efficient.

“A necktie?” Dyson said. “A
which?”

“Necktie,” Mackenzie explained.
"That’s right. Don’t ask me why.
Some of the Old ’Uns don’t bother
with it, but they’re inclined to be
fussy. They get conservative after
the first hundred years, you
know.”

Dyson had submerged that mild
uneasiness and was determined to
play this role at its face value.
Administration might suspect his
sub rosa research, but, at worst,
there would be no punishment.
Merely terribly convincing argu-
ment. And probably they did not
suspect. Anyway, Dyson realized
suddenly, there were two sides to
an argument, and it was possible
that he might convince the logicians
— though that had never been done
before. His current job was to
dig out the information he needed
from the Old ’Uns and — that

ASTOUNDING SCIENCE-FICTION

ended it. He stared into the enor-
mous closet with its rows of un-
likely costumes.

"You nlean they go around in
those clothes all the time ?” he
asked Mackenzie.

"Yeah.” Mackenzie said. He
peeled off his functionally aesthetic
garments and donned a duplicate
of Dyson’s apparel. "You get
used to these things. Well, there
are a few things I’ve got to tell
you. We've plenty of time. The
Old ’Uns go to bed early, so you
can't do anything till tomorrow,
and probably not much then.
They’re suspicious at first.”

“Then why do I have to wear
this now?”

"So you can get used to it. Sit
down. Hike up your pants at the
knee, like this — see? Now sit.”

He pawed at the rough, un-
familiar cloth, settled himself, and
picked up a smoke from the table.
Mackenzie sat with an accomplished
ease Dyson envied, and pressed but-
tons that resulted in drinks sliding
slowly out from an aperture in the
wall.

"We're not in Cozy Nook yet,”
the interpreter said. "This is the
conditioning and control station.
None of the Old ’Uns know what
goes on outside. They think there’s
still a war.”

"But—”

Mackenzie said, "You've never
been in a Home before. Well,
remember that the Old ’Uns are
abnormal. A little — ” He
shrugged. “You’ll see. I've got
to give you a lecture. O.K. At
the time of the Blowup, the radio-

activity caused a cycle of muta-
tions. One type was a group of
immortals. They won’t live
forever—”

Dyson had already done his own
research on that point. Radium
eventually turns to lead. After a
long, long time the energy-quotients
of the immortals would sink below
the level necessary to sustain life.
A short time as the life of a solar
system goes — a long time measured
against the normal human span. A
hundred thousand years, perhaps.
There was no certain way to ascer-
tain, except the empirical one.

Mackenzie said, “A lot of the
Old ’Uns were killed during the
Blowup. They’re vulnerable to
accidents, though they’ve a tremen-
dously high resistance to disease.
It wasn’t till after the Blowup,
after reconstruction had started,
that anybody knew the Old ’Uns
were — what they were. There’d
been tribal legends — the local
shaman had lived forever, you
know the typical stuff. We corre-
lated those legends, found a grain
of truth in them, and investigated.
The Old ’Uns were tested in the
labs. I don’t know the technical
part. But I do know they were
exposed to certain radiations, and
their body-structures were al-
tered.”

Dyson said, “How old do they
average ?”

"Roughly, five hundred years.
During the radioactive days. It
isn’t hereditary, immortality, and
there haven’t been any such radio-
actives since, except in a few
delayed-reaction areas.” Macken-

zie had been thrown off his rou-
tine speech by the interruption.
He took a drink.

He said, “You’ll have to see the
Old ’Uns before you’ll understand
the entire picture. We have to
keep them segregated here. They
have information we need. It's
like an unclassified, huge library.
The only link we have with pre-
Blowup times. And, of course,
we have to keep the Old ’Uns
happy. That isn’t easy. Super-
senility — ” He took another drink
and pushed a button.

Dyson said, “They’re human,
aren’t they ?”

“Physically, sure. Ugly as sin,
though. Mentally, they’ve gone off
at some queer tangents.”

“One of my ancestors is here.”

Mackenzie looked at him queerly.
“Don’t meet her. There’s a guy
named Fell who was a technician
during the Blowup, and a woman
named Hobson who was a witness
of some of the incidents you’re
investigating. Maybe you can get
enough out of those two. Don’t
let curiosity get the better of
you.”

“Why not?” Dyson asked. “I'm
interested.”

Mackenzie's glass had suddenly
emptied,

“It takes special training to be
an interpreter here. As for being
a caretaker . . . one of the group
that keeps the Old ’Uns happy . . .
they’re hand-picked.”

He told Dyson more.

The next morning Mackenzie
showed his guest a compact gadget

130

that fitted into the -ear. it was a.
son®r, arranged so that the two
men could talk, unheard by others,
simply by forming words inaudibly.
The natural body-noises provided
the volume, and it was efficient,
once Dyson had got used to the
rhythmic rise and fall of his heart-
beat.

“They hate people to use ’Spe-
ranto in front of them,” Macken-
zie said. “Stick to English, If
you’ve got something private to
say, use the sonor, or they'll think
you’re talking about them.
Ready?”

“Sure.” Dyson readjusted his
necktie uncomfortably. He fol-
lowed the interpreter through a
valve, down a ramp, and through
another barrier. Filtered, warm
sunlight hit him. He was stand-
ing at the top of an escalator that
flowed smoothly down to the vil-
lage below — Cozy Nook.

A high wail rimmed the Home.
Camouflage nets were spread above,
irregularly colored brown and
green. Dyson remembered that
the Old ! Uns had been told this
was still war time. A pattern of
winding streets, parks, and houses
was below,

Dyson said, “That many ? There
must be a hundred houses here,
Mackenzie.”

“Some of 'em are for interpret-
ers, psychologists, nurses and
guests. Only forty or fifty Old
’Uns, but they’re a handful.”

“They seem pretty active,” Dy-
son said, watching figures move
about the streets. “I don’t see any
surface cars.”

ASTOUNDING SCIENCE FI OT I ON

“Or air-floaters, either,” Macken-
zie said. “We depend on sliding
ways and pneumo. tubes for
transportation here. There’s not
much territory to cover. The idea
is to keep the Old ’ Uns happy, and
a lot of them would want to drive
cars if there were any around.
Their reactions are too slow. Even
with safeties, there’d be accidents.
Let’s go down. Do you want to
see Fell first, or Hobson?”

“'Well . . . Fell’s the technician?
Let's try him/’

“Over,” Mackenzie nodded, and
they went down the escalator. As
they descended, Dyson noticed that
among the modern houses were
some that seemed anachronistic; a
wooden cottage, - a red-brick mon-
strosity, an ugly glass-and-concrete
structure with distorted planes and
bulges. But he was more inter-
ested in the inhabitants of the
Home.

Trees rose up, blocking their
vision, as they descended. They
were ejected gently on a paved
square, lined with padded benches.
A man was standing there, staring
at them, and Dyson looked at him
curiously.

In his ear a voice said, “He’s one
of the Old ’Uns.” Mackenzie was
using the inaudible sonor.

The man was old. Five hundred
years old, Dyson thought, and sud-
denly was staggered by the con-
cept. Five centuries had passed
since this man was born, and he
would go on without change while
time flowed in flux without touch-
ing him.

TIME ENOUGH

What effect had immortality had
upon this man?

For one thing, he had not been
granted eternal youth. The half-
time basic precluded that. Each
year he grew older, but not quite
as old as he had grown the
preceding year. He was stooped —
Dyson was to learn to recognize
that particular stigmata of the
Old ’Uns — and his body seemed to
hang loosely from the rigid cross-
bars of his clavicle. His head,
totally bald, thrust forward, and
small eyes squinted inquisitively at
Dyson. Nose and ears were gro-
tesquely enlarged, Yet the man
was merely old — not monstrous.

He said something Dyson could
not understand. The sound held
inquiry, and, at random, he said,
“How do you do. My name is
Dyson — ”

“Shut up!” the sonor said ur-
gently in his ear, and Mackenzie
moved forward to intercept the
old man, who was edging toward
the escalator. Gibberish spewed
from the interpreter’s lips, and
answering gibberish came from the
Old ’Un. Occasionally Dyson could
trace a familiar word, but the
conversation made no sense to
him.

The old man suddenly turned and
scuttled off. Mackenzie shrugged.

“Hope he didn’t catch your name.
He probably didn’t. There’s a
woman here with the same name —
you said you had an ancestor in
Cozy Nook, didn’t you? We don’t
like the Old 'Uns to get any real
concept of time. It unsettles theta*
If Mander should tell her — " He
m

shook his head. "I guess he
won’t. Their memories aren’t good
at all. Let’s find Fell.”

He guided Dyson along one of
the shaded walks. From porches
bright eyes stared inquisitively at
the pair. They passed workers,
easily distinguishable from the
Old *Uns, and once or twice they
passed one of the immortals.
There could be no difficulty in
recognizing them.

“What did Mander want?” Dy-
son asked.

“He wanted out,” Mackenzie
said briefly. “He’s only a couple
of hundred years old. Result of
one of the freak radiation areas
blowing off two centuries ago.”

“Was he speaking English?”

“His form of it. You see — they
lack empathy. They forget to no-
tice how their words sound to
the listener. They slur and mis-
pronounce and in the end it takes
a trained interpreter to understand
them, Here's Fell’s place.” They
mounted a porch, touched a sensi-
tive plate, and the door opened. A
young man appeared on the
threshold.

“Oh, hello,” he said, nodding to
Mackenzie. “What’s up?”

“Research business. How’s
Fell?”

The male nurse grimaced expres-
sively. “Come in and find out.
He’s had breakfast, but — ”

They went in. Fell was sitting
by a fire, a hunched, huddled fig-
ure so bent over that only the top
of his bald, white head was visible.
The nurse retired, and Mackenzie,

J02

motioning Dyson to a chair, ap-
proached the Old ’CJn.

“Professor Fell,’' he said softly.
“Professor hell. Professor Fell — ”

It went on like that for a loug
time. Dyson’s nerves tightened.
He stared around the room, no-
ticing the musty, choking atmos-
phere that not even a precipitron
could eliminate. Here was none
of the dignity of age. This foul-
smelling, crouching old man hud-
dled in his chair —

Fell lifted his head wearily and
let it fall again. He spoke. The
words were unintelligible.

“Professor Fell,” Mackenzie
said. “We’ve come for a talk,
Professor— ”

The figure roused again. It
spoke.

Mackenzie used the sonor,
“They understand English — some
of ’em, anyway. Fell isn’t like
Mander. I’ll have him talking
soon.”

But it took a long time, and Dy-
son had a throbbing headache
before a grain of information was
elicited from Fell. The Old ’Un
had entirely lost the sense of selec-
tivity. Or, rather, he had acquired
his own arbitrary one. It was
impossible to keep him from stray-
ing from the subject. Mackenzie
did his best to act as a filter, but
it was difficult.

And yet this old man had been
alive five hundred years ago.

Dyson thought of a mate tube,
pierced with a number of tiny holes
at the end to admit the liquid. Fell
was such a tube, stretching back
into the unrecorded past — and he,

ASTOUNDING SCI ENCEFICTION

too, was pierced with a thousand
such holes through which the ir-
relevant came in painful, spasmic
gushes. Someone had cooked an
egg too long once — the price of
wool was monstrous — some un-
known politician was crooked — it
must he arthritis, or else — that boy,
what was his name? Tim, Tom,
something like that — he’d been a
genius-type, yes, but the poor boy
— it isn’t as warm now as it used
to be —

Who? Don’t bother me. X
don’t remember. I mean I don’t
want to be bothered. I’ll tell you
something, that reagent I made
once —

It was all very dull ; every
schoolboy today knew about that
reagent. But Mackenzie had to
sit and listen to the interminable
tale, though he mercifully spared
Dyson most of it. Then, gradu-
ally, he edged Fell back to the
subject.

Oh, the genius boy — he developed
migraine. The specific didn’t work
long. Medicine’s got a lot to learn.
I remember once —

Dyson made a few notes.

What he most wanted were fac-
tors in the physiomental off-norm
variations of the genius-types that
had been produced at random by
the Blowup. Fell had been a
technician at that time, and an
excellent research man. But all
his notes, naturally, had vanished
in the aftermath, when painfully
rebuilt units of civilization kept
tumbling down again, and the
man’s memory was leaky. Once
Dyson made careful notes before

he realized that Fell was giving
him the formula for a Martini in
chemical terminology.

Then Fell got irritable. He ham-
mered weakly on the arm of his
chair and demanded an eggnog,
and Mackenzie, with a shrug, got
up and let the male nurse take
over. The interpreter went out
into the filtered sunlight with Dy-
son.

“Any luck?”

“Some,” Dyson said, referring to
his notes. “It's a very spotty pic-
ture, though.”

“You’ve got to allow for
exaggerations. It’s necessary to
double check their memories be-
fore you can believe ’em. Luck-
ily, Fell isn’t a pathological .liar
like some of the Old ’Uns. Want
to look up the Hobson woman?”
Dyson nodded, and they strolled
through the village. Dyson saw
eyes watching him suspiciously, but
most of the Old 'Uns were en-
grossed in their own affairs.

“Just what’s the angle on your
research?” Mackenzie asked. “Or
is it confidential?”

“We’re trying to increase mental
capacity,” Dyson explained. “You
remember the I. Q. boys born after
the Blowup. Or, rather, you’ve
heard stories about them.”
“Geniuses. Uh-huh. Some were
crazy as bedbugs, weren’t they?”
“Specialized. You’ve heard of
Ahmed. He had a genius for mili-
tary organization, but after he’d
conquered, he didn’t know how to
reconstruct. He ended up very
happy, in a private room playing

TIME ENOUGH

138

with tin soldiers. Trouble is,
Mackenzie, there’s a natural check-
and-balance. You can’t increase
intelligence artificially without load-
ing the seesaw, at the wrong end.
There are all kinds of angles. We
want to build up mental capacity
without weakening the brain-colloid
in other directions. The brainier
you are, the less stable you are, usu-
ally. You’re too apt to get off on
one particular hobby and ride it
exclusively. I’ve heard stories
about a man named Ferguson, born
about three hundred years ago,
who was pretty nearly a superman.
But he got interested in chess, and
pretty soon that was all he cared
about.”

"The Old ’Uns won’t play games,
especially competitive ones. But
they’re certainly not geniuses.”

“None of them?”

Mackenzie said, “At the climac-
teric, their minds freeze into
complete inelasticity. You can
date them by that. Their coiffures,
their clothes, their vocabularies — ■
that’s the label. I suppose senility
is just the stopping point,”.

Dyson thought of half-time, and
then stopped short as a musical note
thrummed through the village. Al-
most instantly there was a crowd
in the street. The Old ’Uns
gathered, thronging closely and
moving toward the sound. Macken-
zie said, “It’s a fire.”

“You’re not fireproofed?”

“Not against arson. Some fool
probably decided he was being
persecuted or ignored and started
a fire to get even. Let’s — ” He
was thrust away from Dyson by

184

the mob. The musty odor became
actively unpleasant. Dyson, pressed
in on all sides by the grotesque,
deformed Old ’Uns, told himself
desperately that physical aspects
were unimportant. But if only he
were more used to deformity —

He pushed his way free and felt
a hand on his arm. He looked down
into the face of Mander, the Old
’Un he had met at the foot of the
escalator that had brought him
down to Cozy Nook. Mander was
grimacing and beckoning furiously.
Gibberish, urgent and unintelligible,
poured from his lips. He tugged at
Dyson’s arm.

Dyson looked around for Macken-
zie, but the interpreter was gone.
He tried vainly to interrupt the
Old ’Un; it was impossible. So
he let himself be pulled a few
yards away, and then stopped.

“Mackenzie,” he said slowly.
“Where is Mackenzie?”

Mander’s face twisted as he
strained to understand. Then his
bald head bobbed in assent. He
pointed, gripped Dyson’s arm again,
and started off. With some mis-
givings, Dyson let himself accom-
pany the Old ’Un. Did the man
really understand?

It wasn’t far to their destination.
Dyson didn’t really expect Macken-
zie to be in the antique wooden
house he entered, but by this time
he was curious. There was a dark-
ened room, a sickening sweet odor
that was patchouli, though Dyson
did not identify it, and he was look-
ing at a shapeless huddle in an
armchair, a thing that stirred and

ASTOUNDING SCIENCE-FICTION

lifted a face that had all run to
fat, white, violet-veined, with sacks
of fat hanging loosely and bobbing
when the tiny mouth opened and it
spoke.

It was very dim in the room.
The furniture, replicas of old
things made to the Old ’Uns’
description, loomed disturbingly.
Through the patchouli came other
odors, indescribable and entirely
out of place in this clean, aseptic,
modern age.

“Im’n-s’n,” the fat woman said
thinly.

Dyson said, “I beg your pardon.
I’m looking for Mackenzie — ”

Mander clutching painfully at
his biceps, a bickering argument
broke out between the two Old
’Uns. The woman, shrilled Man-
der dowu. She beckoned to Dyson,
and he came closer. Her mouth
moved painfully. She said, with
slow effort:

"I'm Jane Dyson. Mander said
you were here.”

His own ancestor. Dyson stared.
It was impossible to trace any
resemblance, and certainly there
was no feeling of kinship, but it
was as though the past had stooped
and touched him tangibly. This
woman had been alive five hundred
years ago, and her flesh was his
own. From her had come the seed
that became, in time, Sam Dyson.

He couldn't speak, for there was
no precedent to guide him. Man-
der chattered again, and Jane Dy-
son heaved her huge body forward
and wheezed, “They’re not fooling
me ... no war ... I know there’s

1 3 «

no war ! Keeping me locked up
here — You get me out of
here !”

“But — wait a minute! I’d bet-
ter get Mackenzie — ”

Again Mander squealed. Jane
Dyson made feeble motions. She
seemed to smile.

“No hurry. Fni your aunt —
anyway? We’ll have a cup of
tea — ”

Mander rolled a table forward.
The tea service was already laid
out, the tea poured in thermocups
that kept it at a stable tempera-
ture.

“Cup of tea. Talk about it. Sit —
down!”

All he wanted to do was escape.
He had never realized the sheer,
sweating embarrassment of meet-
ing an ancestor, especially such a
one as this. But he sat down, took
a cup, and said, “I’m very busy.
I can’t stay long. If I could come
back later — ”

“You can gel us out of here.
Special exits — we know where, but
we can’t open them. Funny metal
plates on them — ”

Emergency exits were no novelty,
but why couldn’t the locks be acti-
vated by the Old ’Uns? Perhaps
the locks had been keyed so that
they would not respond to the al-
tered physiochemistry of the im-
mortals. Wondering how to escape,
Dyson took a gulp of scalding,
bitter tea —

Atrophied taste buds made deli-
cacy of taste impossible. Among
the Old ’Uns there were no gour-
mets. Strong curries, chiles —

ASTOUNDING SCI ENCK -FICTION

Then the drug hit. him, and his
mind drowned in slow, oily surges
of lethargic tides.

Some sort of a hypnotic, of
course. Under the surface he
could still think, a little, but he
was fettered. He was a robot. He
was an automaton. He remem-
bered being put in a dark place and
hidden until nightfall. Then he
remembered being led furtively
through the avenues to an exit.
His trained hands automatically'
opened the lock. Those escape
doors were only for emergency use,
but his will was passive. He went
out into the moonlight with Jane
Dyson and Mander.

It was unreclaimed country
around the Home. The Old ’Uns
didn't know that highways were no
longer used. They wanted to hit
a highway and follow it to -a city.
They bickered endlessly and led
Dyson deeper and deeper into the
wilderness.

They had a motive. Jane Dy-
son, the stronger character, over-
rode Mander’s weak objections.
She was going home, to her hus-
band and family. But often her
mind failed to grasp that concept,
and she asked Dyson questions he
could not answer.

It wasn’t shadowy to him ; it was
not dreamlike. It had a pellucid,
merciless clarity, the old man and
the old woman hobbling and gasp-
ing along beside him, guiding him,
talking sometimes in their strange,
incomprehensible tongue, while he
could not warn them, could not
speak except in answer to direct

orders. The drug, he learned, was
a variant of pentothal.

“I seen them use it,” Jane Dy-
son wheezed. “I got in and took
a bottle of it. Lucky I did, too.
But I knew what I was doing.
They think I’m a fool — ”

Mander he could not understand
at all. But Jane Dyson could
communicate with him, though she
found it painful to articulate the
words with sufficient clarity.

“Can’t fool us , . . keeping us
locked up! We’ll fix ’em. Get to
my folks . . . uh! Got to rest — ”

She was inordinately fat, and
Mander was cramped and crippled
and bent into a bow. Under the
clear moonlight it was utterly gro-
tesque. It could not happen.
They went on and on, dragging
themselves painfully down gullies,
up slopes, heading northward for
some mysterious reason, and more
and more the hands that had origi-
nally been merely guiding became
a drag. The Old ’Uns clung to
Dyson as their strength failed.
They ordered him to keep on.
They hung their weight on his ach-
ing arms and forced their brittle
legs to keep moving.

There was a cleared field, and a
house, with lights in the windows.
Jane Dyson knocked impatiently
on the door. When it opened, a
taffy-haired girl who might have
been seven stood looking up inquir-
ingly. Dyson, paralyzed with the
drug, saw shocked fear come into
the dear blue eyes.

But it passed as Jane Dyson,
thrusting forward, mumbled, “Is
your mother home? Run get your

TIME ENOUGH

18?

mother, little girl. That’s it.”

The girl said, “Nobody’s home
but me. They won’t be back till
eleven.”

The old woman had pushed her
way in, and Mander urged Dyson
across the threshold. The girl had
retreated, still staring. Jane
plopped herself into a relaxer and
panted.

“Got to rest . . . where’s your
mother? Run get her. That’s it.
I want a nice cup of tea.”

The girl was watching Dyson,
fascinated by his paralysis. She
sensed something amiss, but her
standards of comparison were few.
She fell back on polite habit.

“I can get you some mate,
ma’am.”

“Tea? Yes, yes. Hurry,
Betty.”

The girl went out. Mander
crouched by a heating plate,
mumbling. Dyson stood stiffly,
his insides crawling coldly.

Jane Dyson muttered, “Glad to
be home. Betty’s my fourth, you
know. They said the radiations
would cause trouble . . . that fool
scientist said I was susceptible, but
the children were all normal.
Somebody’s been changing the
house around. Where’s Tom?”
She eyed Dyson. “You’re not
Tom. I’m . . . what’s this?” The
girl came back with three mate
gourds. Jane seized hers greed-
ily.

“You mustn’t boil the water too
long, Betty,” she said.

“I know. It takes out the
air — ”

138

“Now you be still. Sit down and
be quiet.”

Jane drank her mate noisily, but
without comment. Dyson had a
queer thought, but she and the
child were at a contact point, pass-
ing each other, in a temporal
dimension. They had much in
common. The child had little
experience, and the old woman had
had much, but could no longer use
hers. Yet real contact was im-
possible, for the only superiority
the Old ’Un had over the child was
the factor of age, and she could
not let herself respect the child’s
mentality or even communicate,
save with condescension.

Jane Dyson dozed. The child sat
silent, watching and waiting, with
occasional puzzled glances at Man-
der and Dyson. Once Jane or-
dered the girl to move to another
chair so she wouldn’t catch cold by
the window — which wasn’t open.
Dyson thought of immortality and
knew himself to be a fool.

For man has natural three-
dimensional limits, and he also has
four-dimensional ones, considering
time as an extension. When he
reaches those limits, he ceases to
grow and mature, and forms rigidly
within the mold of those limiting
\va“\ It is stasis, which is
retrogression unless all else stands
still as well. A man who reaches
his limits is tending toward sub-
humanity. Only when he becomes
superhuman in time and space can
immortality become practical.

Standing there, with only his
mind free, Dyson had other ideas.
The real answer might be entirely

ASTOUNDING SCIENCE-FICTION

subjective. Immortality might be
achieved without extending the
superficial life span at all. If you
could reason sufficiently fast, you
could squeeze a year's reasoning
into a day or a minute —

For example, each minute now
lasted a hundred years.

Jane Dyson woke up with a start.
She staggered to her feet. “We
can’t stay/’ she said. “Fve got to
get on home for dinner. Tell your
mother — ” She mumbled and hob-
bled toward the door. Hander,
apathetically silent, followed. Only
jane remembered Dyson, and she
called to him from the threshold.
The little girl, standing wide-eyed,
watched Dyson stiffly follow the
others out.

They went on, but they found no
more houses. At last weariness
stopped the Old ’Uns. They shel-
tered in a gully. Hander crawled
under a bush and tried to sleep.
It was too cold. He got up, hob-
bled back, and pulled off the old
woman's cloak. She fought him
feebly. He got the cloak, went
back and slept, snoring. Dyson
could do nothing but stand motion-
less.

Jane Dyson dozed and woke and
talked and dozed again. She
brought up scattered, irrelevant
memories of the past and spread
them out for Dyson’s approval.
The situation was almost ideal.
She had a listener who couldn’t
interrupt or get away.

“Thought they could fool an old
woman like me. . . . I’m not old.
Making me chew bones. Was that
it? There was a bad time for a

suddenly he hesitates in mid-
f light and plunges to the
ground like a wounded bird.
He never heard the bullet's
killing whine. ... A snow
man reveals himself as the
frosty coffin of a murdered
corpse. . . . An iceboat chase
brings The Shadow close on
the heels of a vicious, clever
killer.

The Shadow goes to a crowded
winter resort to find the mur-
derer who strikes death into
the gay midst of a winter
carnival. Don't mis’S this thrill-
ing Maxwell Grant story of
The Shadow's adventures in
DEATH ON ICE, in the De-
cember issue of

SHADOW

AT ALL NEWSSTANDS

TIME ENOUGH

while. Where’s Tom? Just leave
me alone — ”

And — “Telling me I was going
to live forever ! Scientists ! He
was right, though. I found that
out. i was susceptible. It scared
me. Everything going to pot, and
Tom dying and me going on. . . .
I got some pills. I’d got hold of
them. More’n once I nearly swal-
lowed them, too. You don’t live
forever if you take poison, that’s
certain. But I was smart. I waited
a while. Time enough, I said. It’s
cold.”

Her mottled, suety cheeks quiv-
ered. Dyson waited. He was
beginning to feel sensation again.
The hypnotic was wearing off.

Rattling, painful snores came
from the invisible Mander, hidden
in the gloom. A cold wind sighed
clown the gully. Jane Dyson’s fat
white face was pale in the faint
light of distant, uninterested stars.
She stirred and laughed a high,
nickering laugh.

“f just had the funniest, dream,”
she said. “I dreamed Tom was
dead and J was old.”

A copter picked up Dyson and
the Old 'Uns half an hour later.
But no explanations were made
until he was back in the city, and
even then they waited till Dyson
had time to visit his secret labora-
tory and return. Then his uncle,
Roger Peaslee, came into Dyson’s
apartment and sat down without
invitation, looking sympathetic.

Dyson was white and sweating.
He put down his glass, heavily

140

loaded with whiskey, and stared at
Peaslee.

“It was a frame, wasn’t it?” he
asked.

Peaslee nodded. He said, “Logic
will convince a man he’s wrong,
provided the right argument is
used. Sometimes it’s impossible to
find the right argument.”

“When Administration sent me
to the Home, 1 thought they’d
found out I was doing immortality
research.”

“Yes. As soon as they found
otit, they sent you to Cozy Nook.
That was the argument.”

“’Well, it was convincing. A
whole night in ihe company of
those — ” Dyson drank. He didn’t
seem to feel it. He was still very
pale.

Peaslee said,. "We framed that
escape, too, as you've guessed. But
we kept an eye on you all along,
to make sure you and the Old ’Uns
would be safe.”

“It was hard on them.”

“No. They’ll forget. They’ll
think it was another dream. Most
of the time they don’t know they’re
old, you see. A simple defense
mechanism of senility. As for that
little girl. I’ll admit that wasn’t
planned. But no harm was done.
The Old ’Uns didn’t shock or hor-
rify her. And nobody will believe
her — which is fine, because the
Archive myth has to stand for a
while.”

Dyson didn't answer. Peaslee
looked at him more intently.

“Don’t take it so hard, Sam.
You lost an argument, that’s all.
You know now that age without

ASTOUND! NO yt'TH v « • »•;. -FICTION

increasing maturity doesn’t mean
anything. You’ve got to keep go-
ing ahead. Stasis is fatal. When
we can find out how to overcome
that, it’ll be safe to make people
immortal. Right ?”

“Right.”

“We want to study that labora-
tory of yours, before we dismantle
it. Where’s it hidden?”

Dyson told him. Then he poured
himself another drink, downed it,
and stood up. He picked up a sheet
of paper from the table and tossed
it at his uncle.

“Maybe you can use that, too,”
he said. “I was just down at the
lab making some tests. I got
scared.”

“Eh?”

“Jane Dyson was especially
susceptible to the particular radia-
tions that cause immortality. Like
cancer, you know. You can’t
inherit it, but you can inherit the
susceptibility. Well I remem-
bered that I’d been working a lot
with those radiations, in secret. So
I tested myself just now.”

Peaslee opened his mouth, but
he didn’t say anything.

Dyson said, “It wouldn’t have
bothered most people — those radia-
tions. But Jane Dyson passed on
her susceptibility to me. It was
accidental. But — I was exposed.
Why didn’t Administration get on
to me sooner!”

Peaslee said slowly: “You don’t
mean — ”

Dyson turned away from the
look beginning to dawn in his
uncle’s eyes. '

THE

TIME ENOtJGH

An hour later he stood in his bath-
room alone, a sharp blade in his
hand. The mirror watched him
questioningly. He was drunk, but
not very; it wouldn’t be so easy to
get drunk from now on. From now
on —

He laid the cold edge of the knife
against one wrist. A stroke would
let out the blood from his immortal
body, stop his immortal heart in
mid-beat, turn him from an im-
mortal into a very mortal corpse.
His face felt stiff. The whiskey
taste in his mouth couldn’t rinse
out the musty smell of senility.

The thought: Of course there’s
Marta. Fourscore and ten is the
normal span. If I cut it off now,
I'll be losing a good many years.
When I’m ninety, it would be time
enough. Suppose I went on for a
little while longer, married Marta —

He looked at the knife and then
into the glass. He said aloud:

“When I’m ninety I’ll commit
suicide.”

Young, firm-fleshed, ruddy with
health, his face looked enigmatically
back at him from the mirror. Age
would come of course. As for
death—

There would be time enough,
sixty years from now, when he
faced a mirror and knew that he
had gone beyond maturity and into
the darkening, twilight years. He
would know, when the time came —
of course he would know !

And in Cozy Nook, Jane Dyson
stirred and moaned in her sleep,
dreaming that she was old.

END.

141

HAND OF THE GODS

BY A. E. VAN VOGT

Clane , the Child of the Gods , might be loved by the Atom Gods ,
but not by the sharp-minded old woman who ruled the Empire
— and that was a very practical and dangerous matter indeed!

At twenty, Clane wrote his first
book. It was a cautiously worded,
thin volume about old legends. And
what was important about it was
not that it attempted to dispel
supersitions about the vanished
golden era which the atom gods
had destroyed, but that for weeks
it required him to go every day
into the palace library, where, with
the help of three secretary-slaves
— two men and a woman — he did
the necessary research work.

It was in the library that the
Lady Lydia, his stepgrandmother,
saw him one day.

She had almost forgotten that he
existed. But she saw him now for
the first time under conditions that
were favorable to his appearance.
He was modestly attired in the
fatigue gown of a temple scientist,
a costume which was effective for

142

covering up his physical deforma-
tions. There were folds of cloth
to conceal his mutated arms so
skillfully that his normal human
hands came out into the open as if
they were the natural extensions of
a healthy body. The cloak was
drawn up into a narrow, not un-
attractive band around his neck,
which served to hide the subtly
mutated shoulders and the un-
human chest formation. Above the
collar, Lord Clane’ s head reared
with all the pride of a young lord-
ling.

It was-- a head to make any
woman look twice, delicately beauti-
ful, with a remarkably clear skin.
Lydia, who had never seen her
husband’s grandson, except at a
distance — Clane had made sure of
that — felt a constricting fear in her
heart.

ASTOUNDING SCIENCE-FICTION

“By Uranium !” she thought.
“Another great man. As if I
didn’t have enough trouble trying
to get Tews back from exile.”

It hardly seemed likely that
death would be necessary for a
mutation. But if she ever hoped
to have Tews inherit the empire,
then all the more direct heirs
would have to be taken care of in
some way. Standing there, she
added this new relative to her list
of the more dangerous kin of the
ailing Lord Leader.

She saw that Clane was looking
at her. His face had changed,
stiffened, lost some of its good
looks, and that brought a memory
of things she had heard about him.
That he was easily upset emotion-
ally. The prospect interested her.
She walked towards him, a thin
smile on her long, handsome
countenance.

Twice, as she stood tall before
him, he tried to get up. And failed
each time. All the color was gone
from his cheeks, his face even more
strained looking than it had been,
ashen and unnatural, twisted,
changed, the last shape of beauty
gone from it. His lips worked with
*he effort at speech, but only a
touted burst of unintelligible sounds
issued forth.

Lydia grew aware that the young
slave woman-secretary was almost
as agitated as her master. The
creature looked beseechingly at
Lydia, finally gasped :

“May I speak, your excellency?”
That shocked. Slaves didn’t
speak except when spoken to. It

was not just a rule or a regulation
dependent upon the whim of the
particular owner; it was the law
of the land, and anybody could
report breach as a misdemeanor,
and collect half the fine which was
subsequently levied from the slave’s
master. What dazed Lady Lydia
was that she should have been the
victim of such a degrading experi-
ence. She was so stunned that the
young woman had time to gasp:

“You must forgive him. He is
subject to fits of nervous paralysis,
when he can neither move nor
speak. The sight of his illustrious
grandmother coming upon him by
surprise — ”

That was as far as she got.
Lydia found her voice. She
snapped :

“It is too bad that all slaves are
not similarly afflicted. How dare
you speak to me?”

She stopped, catching herself
sharply. It was not often that
she lost her temper, and she had
no intention of letting the situation
get out of hand. The slave girl
was sagging away as if she had
been struck with a violence beyond
her power to resist. Lydia watched
the process of disintegration curi-
ously. There was only one pos-
sible explanation for a slave speak-
ing up so boldly for her master.
She must be one of his favorite
mistresses. And the odd thing, in
this case, was that the slave her-
self seemed to approve of the
relationship, or she wouldn’t have
been so anxious for him.

It would appear , thought Lydia.
that this mutation relative of mine

HAND OF THE GODS

14a

can make himself attractive in spite
of his deformities , and that it isn’t
only a case of a slave girl compelled
by her circumstances.

Tt seemed to her that the moment
had potentialities. “What/’ she
said, “is your name?”

“Selk.” The young woman
spoke huskily.

“Oh, a Martian.”

The Martian war, some years
before, had produced some hun-
dreds of thousands of husky, good-
looking boy and girl Martians for
the slave schools to train.

Lydia’s plan grew clear. She
would have the girl assassinated,
and so put the first desperate fear
into the mutation. That should
hold him until she had succeeded
in bringing Tews back from exile
to supreme power. After all, he
was not too important. It would
be impossible for a despised muta-
tion ever to become Lord Leader.

He had to be put out of the way
in the long run, because the Linn
party would otherwise try to make
use of him against Tews and her-
self.

She paused for a last look down
at Clane, He was sitting as rigid
as a board, his eyes glazed, his face
still colorless and unnatural. She
made no effort to conceal her con-
tempt as, with a flounce of her
skirt, she turned and walked away,
followed by her ladies and personal
slaves.

Slaves were sometimes trained to
be assassins. The advantage of
using them was that they could not
be witnesses in court either for or

144

against the accused. But Lydia
had long discovered that, if any-
thing went wrong, if a crisis arose
as a result of the murder attempt,
a slave assassin did not have the
same determination to win over
obstacles. Slaves took to their
heels at the slightest provocation,
and returned with fdhtastic ac-
counts of the odd? that had de-
feated them.

She used former knights and
sons of knights, whose families
had been degraded from their rank
because they were penniless. Such
men had a desperate will to acquire
money, and when they failed she
could usually count on a plausible
reason.

She had a horror of not know-
ing the facts. For more than
thirty of her fifty-five years her
mind had been a nonsaturable
sponge for details and ever more
details.

It was accordingly of more than
ordinary interest to her when the
two knights she had hired to mur-
der her stepgrandson’s slave girl,
Selk, reported that they had been
unable to find the girl.

“There is no such person now
attached to Lord Clane’? city house-
hold.”

Her informant, a slim youth
named Meerl, spoke with, that
mixture of boldness and respect
which the more devil-may-care
assassins affected when talking to
high personages.

“Lady,” he went on with a bow
and a smile, *T think you have
been outwitted.”

“I’ll do the thinking,” said Lydia

ASTOUNDING SCIENCE-FICTION

with asperity. “You’re a sword or
a knife with a strong arm to wield.
Nothing more.”

“And a good brain to direct it,”
said Meerl.

Lydia scarcely heard. Her re-
tort had been almost automatic.
Because — could it be? Was it
possible that Clane had realized
what she would do?

What startled her was the
decisiveness of it, the prompt ac-
tion that had been taken on the
basis of what would only have been
a suspicion. The world was full
of people who never did anything
about their suspicions. The group
that did was always in a special
class. If Clane had consciously
frustrated her, then he was even
more dangerous than she had
thought. She’d have to plan her
next move with care.

She grew aware that the two
men were still standing before her.
She glared at them.

“Well, what are you waiting for ?
You know there is no money if
you fail.”

“Gracious lady,” said Meerl, “we
did not fail. You failed.”

Lydia hesitated, impressed by
the fairness of the thrust. She
had a certain grudging respect for
this particular assassin.

“Fifty percent,” she said.

She tossed forward a pouch of
money. It was skillfully caught.
The men bowed quickly, stiffly,
with a flash of white teeth and a
clank of steel. They whirled and
disappeared through thick portieres
that concealed the door by which
they had entered.

Lydia sat alone with her thoughts,
but not for long. A knock came
on another door, and one of her
ladies in waiting entered, holding
a sealed letter in her hand.

“This arrived, madam, while you
were engaged.”

Lydia’s eyebrows went up a
little when she saw that the letter
was from Clane. She read it, .tight-
lipped :

To My Most Gracious Grandmother:

I offer my sincere apologies for the in-
sult and distress which I caused your
ladyship yesterday in the library. I can
only plead that my nervous afflictions are
well known in the family, and that, when
I am assailed, it is beyond my power to
control myself.

I also offer apologies for the action
of my slave girl in speaking to you. It
was my first intention to turn her over
to you for punishment. But then it struck
me that you were so tremendously busy
at all times, and besides she scarcely
merited your attention. Accordingly, I
have had her sold in the country to a
dealer in labor, and she will no doubt
learn to regret her insolence.

With rare wed humble apologies, I re-
main,

Your obedient grandson,
Clane

Reluctantly, the Lady Linn was
compelled to admire the letter.
Now she would never know
whether she had been outwitted or
victorious.

I suppose , she thought acridly,
I could at great expense discover if
he merely sent her to his country
estate, there to wait until I have
forgotten what she looks like. Or
could 1 even do that ?

She paused to consider the diffi-
culties. She would have to send

HAND OF THE GODS

145

as an investigator someone who
had seen the girl. Who? She
looked up.

“Dalat.”

The woman who had brought the
letter curtsied.

“Yes?”

“What did that slave girl in the
library yesterday look like?”

Dalat was disconcerted.
“W-why, I don’t think I noticed,
your ladyship. A blonde, I
think.”

“A blonde!” Explosively.
“Why, you numskull. That girl
had the most fancy head of golden
hair that I’ve seen in several years
— rand you didn't notice.”

Dalat was herself, again. “I am
not accustomed to remembering
slaves,” she said.

“Get out of here,” said Lydia.
But she said it in a flat tone, with-
out emotion.

Here was defeat.

She shrugged finally. After all,
it was only an idea she had had.
Her problem was to get Tews back
to Linn. Lord Clane, the only
mutation ever born into the family
of the Lord Leader, could wait.

Nevertheless, the failure rankled.

The Lord Leader had over a
period of years become an ailing
old man, - who could not make up
his mind. At seventy-one, he was
almost blind in his left eye, and
only his voice remained strong.
He had a thunderous baritone that
still struck terror into the hearts
of criminals when he sat on the
chair of high judgment, a duty
which, because of its sedentary

14(5

nature, he cultivated more and
more as the swift months of his
declining years parsed by.

He was greatly surprised one day
to see Clane turn up in the palace
court as a defense counsel for a
knight. He stopped the presenta-
tion of the case to ask some
questions.

“Have you experience in the
lower courts ?”

“Yes, Leader.”

“Hm-m-m, why was I not
told ?”

The mutation had suddenly a
strained look on his face, as if the
pressure of being the center of
attention was proving too much for
him. The Lord Leader recalled the
young man’s affliction, and said
hastily :

“Proceed with the case. I shall
talk to you later.”

The case was an unimportant one
involving equity rights. It had
obviously been taken by Clane be-
cause of its simple, just aspects.
For a first case in the highest court
it had been well selected. The old
man was pleased, and gave the
favorable verdict with satisfac-
tion.

As usual, however, he had over-
estimated his strength. And so,
he was finally forced to retire
quickly, with but a word to
Clane :

“I shall come to call on you one
of these days. I have been want-
ing to see your home.”

That night he made the mistake
of sitting on the balcony too long
without a blanket. He caught a
cold, and spent the whole of the

ASTOUNDING SCIENCE-FICTION

month that followed in bed. It was
there, helpless on his back, acutely
aware of his weak body, fully,
clearly conscious at last that he had
at most a few years to live, that
the Lord Leader realized finally the
necessity of selecting an heir. In
spite of his personal dislike for
Tews, he found himself listening,
at first grudgingly, then more
amenably, to his wife.

“Remember,” she said, again and
again, “your dream of bequeathing
to the world a unified empire.
Surely, you cannot become senti-
mental about it at the last minute.
Lords Jerrin and Draid are still
too young. Jerrin, of course, is
the most brilliant young man of
his generation. He is obviously a
future Lord Leader, and should be
named so in your will. But not
yet. You cannot hand over the
solar system to a youngster of
twenty-four.”

The Lord Leader stirred un-
easily. He noticed that there was
not a word in her argument about
the reason for Tews’ exile. And
that she was too clever ever to
allow into her voice the faintest
suggestion that, behind her logic,
was the emotional fact that Tews
was her son.

“There are of course,” Lydia
went on, “the boy’s uncles on
their mother’s side, both amiable
administrators but lacking in will.”
And then there are your daughters
and sons-in-law, and their children,
and your nieces and nephews.”

“Forget them.” The Lord
Leader, gaunt and intent on the
pillow, moved a hand weakly in

148

dismissal of the suggestion. He
was not interested in the second-
raters. “You have forgotten,” he
said finally, “Clane.”

“A mutation!” said Lydia, sur-
prised. “Are you serious?”

The lord of Linn was silent. He
knew better, of course. Mutations
were despised, hated, and, paradoxi-
cally, feared. No normal person
would ever accept their domina-
tion. The suggestion was actually
meaningless. But he knew why he
had made it. Delay. He realized
he was being pushed inexorably to
choosing as his heir Lydia’s plump-
ish son by her first husband.

“If you considered your own
blood only,” urged Lydia, “it would
be just another case of imperial
succession so common among our
tributary monarchies and among the
barbarians of Aiszh and Venus and
Mars. Politically it would be
meaningless. If, however, you
strike across party lines, your ac-
tion will speak for your supreme
patriotism. In no other way could
you so finally and unanswerably
convince the world that you have
only its interest at heart.”

The old scoundrel, dimmed
though his spirit and intellect were
by illness and age, was not quite
so simple as that. He knew what
they were saying under the pillars,
that Lydia was molding him like
a piece of putty to her plans.

Not that such opinions disturbed
him very much. The tireless propa-
ganda of his enemies and of mis-
chief makers and gossips had
dinned into his ears for nearly fifty

ASTOUNDING SCIENCE-FICTIO-N

years, and he had become immune
to the chatter.

In the end the decisive factor
was only partly Lydia’s arguments,
only partly his own desperate
realization that he had little choice.
The unexpected factor was a visit
to his bedside by the younger of his
two daughters by his first marriage.
She asked that he grant her a
divorce from her present husband,
and permit her to marry the exiled
Tews.

f ‘I have always,” she said, “been
in love with Tews, anc! only Tews,
and J. am willing to join him in
exile.”

The prospect was so dazzling
that, for once, the old man was
completely fooled. It did not even
occur to him that Lydia had spent
two days convincing the cautious
Gudrun that here was her only
chance of becoming first lady of
Linn.

"Otherwise,” Lydia had pointed
out, “you’ll be just another relative,
dependent upon the whim of the
reigning Lady Leader.”

The Linn of Linn suspected ab-
solutely nothing of that behind-the-
scenes connivance. His daughter
married to Lord Tews. The pos-
sibilities warmed his chilling blood.
She was too old, of course, to have
any more children, but she would
serve Tews as Lydia had him, a
perfect foil, a perfect representa-
tive of his own political group. His
daughter !

I must, he thought, go and see
what Clone thinks. Meanwhile I

can send for Tews on a tentative
basis .

He didn’t say that out loud. No
one in the family except himself
realized the enormous extent of the
knowledge that the long-dead temple
scientist Joquin had bequeathed to
Clane. The Lord Leader preferred
to keep the information in his own
mind. He knew Lydia’s propensity
for hiring assassins, and it wouldn't
do to subject Clane to more than
ordinary danger from that source.

He regarded the mutation as an
unsuspected stabilizing force dur-
ing the chaos that might follow his
death. He wrote the letter inviting
Tews to return to Linn, and, a week
later, finally out of bed, had himself
carried to Clane’s residence in the
west suburbs. He remained over-
night, and, returning the next day,
began to discharge a score of key
men whom Lydia had slipped into
administrative positions on occa-
sions when he was too weary to
know what the urgent business was
for which he was signing papers.

Lydia said nothing, but she noted
the sequence of events. A visit
to Clane, then action against her
men. She pondered that for some
days, and then, the day before Tews
was due, she paid her first visit
to the modest looking home of Lord
Clane Linn, taking care that she was
not expected. She had heard vague
accounts of the estate.

The reality surpassed anything
she had ever imagined or heard.

For seven years, Tews had lived
on Awai in the Great Sea. He had
a small property on the largest

HAND OF THE GODS

148

island of the group, and, after his
disgrace, his mother had suggested
that he retire there rather than to
one of his more sumptuous main-
land estates. A shrewd, careful
man, he recognized the value of the
advice. His role, if he Hoped to
remain alive, must be sackcloth and
ashes.

At first it was purposeful cun-
ning. In Linn, Lydia wracked her
brains for explanations and finally
came out with the statement that
her son had wearied and sickened
of politics, and retired to a life of
meditation beyond tj^e poisoned
waters. For a long time, so plaus-
ible and convincing was her sighing,
tired way of describing his feelings
— as if -she, too, longed for the
surcease of rest from the duties of
her position — that the story was
actually believed. Patrons, gover-
nors and ambassadors, flying out in
spaceships from Linn to the conti-
nents across the ocean, paused as
a matter of course to pay their re-
spects to the son of Lydia.

Gradually, they began to catch on
that he was out of favor. Des-
perately, terribly dangerously out of
favor, The stiff-faced silence of
the Lord Leader when Tews was
mentioned was reported finally
among administrators and politi-
cians everywhere. People were tre-
mendously astute, once they realized.
It was recalled that Tews had
hastily departed from Linn at the
time when the news of the death of
General Lord Creg, son of the Lord
Leader, was first brought from
Mars, At the time his departure
had scarcely been remarked. Now

150

it was remembered and conclusions
drawn. Great ships, carrying high
government officials, ceased to stop,
so that the officials could float down
for lunch with Lord Tews. But
that was the least important aspect.
The deadly danger was that some
zealous and ambitious individual
knight might seek to gain the favor
of Linn of Linn by murdering his
stepson.

Lydia herself nipped several such
plots in the bud. But each con-
spiracy was such a visible strain on
her nervous system that the Lord
Leader unfroze sufficiently to be-
stow on Tews a secondary military
position on Awai. It was actually
an insulting offer, but the panic-
stricken Lydia persuaded Tews to
accept it as a means of preserving
his life until she could do more for
him. The position, and the power
that went with it, arrived just in
time.

He had formed a habit of attend-
ing lectures at the University of
Awai. One day, a term having
expired, and a new one scheduled
to begin, he made the. customary
application for renewal. The pro-
fessor in charge took the oppor-
tunity during the first lecture of
the first semester of the new term
• — the first lecture was free and open
to the public — to inform him be-
fore the entire audience that, since
the lists were full, his application
was being rejected, and would have
to be put over until the following
year, when, of course, it would be
considered again “on its merits.’*

It was the act of a neurotic fool.
But Tews would have let it pass

ASTOUNDING SCIENCE F TOT t ON

for the time being if the audience,
recognizing a fallen giant, had not
started catcalling and threatening.
The uproar grew with the minutes,
and, experienced leader of men that
he was, Tews realized that a mob
mood was building up, which must
be smashed if he hoped to continue
living in safety on the island. He
climbed to his feet, and, since most
of the audience was standing on
seats and benches he managed to
reach the outside before the yelling
individuals who saw him were able
to attract the attention of the yelling
crowd that didn’t.

Tews went straight to the outdoor
restaurant where his new guard was
waiting. It was a rowdy crew, but
recently arrived from Linn, and
with enough basic discipline to fol-
low him back into the lecture room.
There was a pause in the confusion
when the glinting line of spears
wedged towards the platform. In a
minute, before an abruptly subdued
audience, the startled professor was
being stripped and tied to a chair.
The twenty-five lashes that he re-
ceived then ended for good the out-
burst of hatred against Tews.

He returned to his villa that after-
noon, and made no further effort
to participate in the activities of the
community. The isolation affected
him profoundly. He became tre-
mendously observant. He noticed
in amazement for the first time that
the islanders swam at night in the
ocean. Swam! In water that had
been poisoned since legendary times
by the atom gods. Was it possible
the water was no longer deadly?
He noted the point for possible

future reference, and for the first
time grew interested in the name
the islanders had for the great
ocean. Passfic. Continental people
had moved inland to escape the
fumes of the deadly seas, and they
had forgotten the ancient names.

During the long months of alone-
ness that followed his retreat to his
villa, Tews’ mind dwelt many times
critically upon his life in Linn. He
began to see the madness of it, and
the endless skulduggery. He read
with more and more amazement the
letters of his mother, outlining what
she was doing. It was a tale of
endless cunnings, conspiracies and
murders, written in a simple code
that was effective because it was
based on words the extra-original
meanings of which were known only
to his mother and himself.

His amazement became disgust,
and disgust grew into the first com-
prehension of the greatness of his
stepfather, the Lord Leader.

But he's ivrong, Tews thought
intently. The way to a unified em-
pire is not through a continuation
of absolute power for one man. The
old republic never had a chance,
since the factions came up from the
days of the two-king system. But
now, after decades of virtual non-
party patriotism under my honor-
able stepfather, it should be possible
to restore the republic with the very
good possibility that this time it will
work. That must be my task if I
can ever return to Linn.

The messenger from the Lord,
Leader inviting his return arrived
on the same ship as another letter

HAND OF THE GODS

151

from his mother. Hers sounded as to quality as quantity. And it wasn’t
if it had been written in breathless as if he was bound to another
haste, but it contained an explana- woman. His wife, seven years be-
tion of how his recall had been ac- fore, <?n discovering that his de-
complished. The price shocked parture from Linn might be perma-
Tews. bent, hastily persuaded her father

What , he thought, marry Gud- to declare them divorced.
run!’* Yes, he was free to marry.

It took an hour for his nerves

to calm sufficiently for him even to Lydia, on the way to the home of
consider the proposition. His plan, her stepgrandson, pondered her
it seemed to him finally, was too im- situation. She was not satisfied,
portant to be allowed to fail because A dozen of her schemes were com-
of his distaste for a woman whose ing to a head; and here she was
interest in men ran not so much going to see Lord Clane, a com-

ir,2

ASTOUNDING SCIENOF, FICTION

pletely unknown factor. Thinking
about it from that viewpoint, she
felt astonished. What possible dan-
ger, she asked herself again and
again, could a mutation be to her?

Even as those thoughts infuriated
the surface of her mind, deep in-
side she knew better. There was
something here. Something. The
old man would never bother with
a nonentity. He was either quiet
with the quietness of weariness, or
utterly impatient. Young people
particularly enraged him easily, and
if Clane was an exception, then
there was n reason.

From a distance, Clane’s resi-
dence looked small. There was
brash in the foreground, and a solid
wall of trees across the entire eight-
hundred- fooi front of the estate.
The house peaked a few feet above
a mantle of pines and evergreens.
As her chair drew nearer it, Lydia
decided it was y three-story building,
which was certainly minuscule beside
the palaces of the other Linns. Her
bearers puffed up a hill, trotted past
a pleasant arbor of trees, and came
after a little to a low, massive fence
that had not been visible from be-
low. Lydia, always alert for mili-
tary obstacles, had her chair put
down. She climbed out, conscious
that a cool, sweet breeze was blow-
ing where, a moment before, had
been only the dead heat of a stifling
summer day. The air was rich with
the perfume of trees and green
things.

She walked slowly along the
fence, noting that it was skillfully
hidden from the street below by
an unbroken hedge, although it

FAN© or THE GODS

showed through at this close range.
She recognized the material as simi-
lar to that of which the temples of
the scientists was constructed, only
there was no visible lead lining. She
estimated the height of the fence at
three feet, and its thickness about
three and a half. It was fat and
squat and defensively useless.

When I w as young , she thought,
I could have jumped over it myself.

She returned to the chair, an-
noyed because she couldn’t fathom
its purpose, and yet couldn’t quite
believe it had no purpose. It was
even more disconcerting to discover
a hundred feet farther along the
walk that the gate was not a closure
but an opening in the wall, and that
there was no guard in sight. In
a minute more, the bearers had car-
ried her inside, through a tunnel of
interwoven shrubs shadowed by
towering trees, and then to an open
lawn. That was where the real
surprise began.

“Stop!” said the Lady Leader
Lydia.

An enormous combination
meadow and garden spread from
the edge of the trees. She had an
eye for size, and, without conscious-
ly thinking about it, she guessed that
fifteen acres were visible from her
vantage point. A gracious stream
meandered diagonally across the
meadow. Along its banks scores o f
guest homes had been built, low.
sleek, be-windowed structures, each
with its overhanging shade trees.
The house, a. square-built affair,
towered to her right. At the far end
of the grounds were five spaceships
neatly laid out side by side. And
ses

everywhere were people. Men and
women singly and in groups, sitting
in chairs, walking, working, read-
ing, writing, drawing and painting.
Thoughtfully, Lydia walked over
to a painter, who sat with his easel
and palette a scant dozen yards
from her. He was painting the
scene before him, and he paid no
attention to her. She was not ac-
customed to being ignored. She
said sharply:

“What is all this?" She waved
one arm to take in the activities of
the estate. “What is going on
here ?”

The young man shrugged. He
dabbed thoughtfully at the scene he
was painting, then, still without
looking up, said:

“Here, madam, you have the cen-
ter of Linn. Here the thought and
opinion of the empire is created and
cast into molds for public consump-
tion. Ideas born here, once they
are spread among the masses, be-
come the mores of the nation and
the solar system. To be invited
here is an unequaled honor, for it
means that your work as a scholar
or artist has received the ultimate
recognition that power and money
can give. Madam, whoever you are,
T welcome you to the intellectual
center of the world. You would
not be here if you had not some un-
surpassed achievement to your
credit. However, I beg of you,
please do not tell me what it is
until this evening when I shall be
happy to lend you both my ears.
And now, old and successful
woman, good day to you.”

Lydia withdrew thoughtfully.

154

Her impulse, to have the young
man stripped and lashed, yielded
before a sudden desire to remain
incognito as long as possible while
she explored this unsuspected out-
door salon.

It was a universe of strangers.
Not once did she see a face she
recognized. These people, what-
ever their achievements, were not
the publicized great men of the
empire. She saw no patrons and
only one man with the insignia of
a knight on his coat. And when she
approached him, she recognized
from the alien religious symbol con-
nected with the other markings,
that his knighthood was of pro-
vincial origin.

He was standing beside a foun-
tain near a cluster of guest homes.
The fountain spewed forth a skill-
fully blended mixture of water and
smoke. It made a pretty show, the
smoke rising up in thin, steamlike
clouds. As she paused beside the
fountain there was a cessation of
the cooling breeze, and she felt a
wave of heat that reminded her of
steaming hot lower town. Lydia
concentrated on the man and on her
desire for information.

“I'm new here,” she said engag-
ingly. “Has this center been long
in existence?”

“About three years, madam. After
all, our young prince is only twenty-
four!”

“Prince?” asked Lydia.

The knight, a rugged faced indi-
vidual of forty, was apologetic.

“I beg your pardon. It is an
old word of my province, signifying

ASTOUNDING SCIENCE-FICTION

the Martians as they were attacked.
And then, again, others say that
it is the atom gods helping their
favorite mutation.”

“Oh!” said Lydia. This was the
kind of talk she could understand.
She had never in her life worried
about what the gods might think
of her actions. And she was not
going to start now. She straight-
ened and glared imperiously at the
man.

“Don’t be such a fool,” she said.
“A man who has dared to penetrate
the homes of the gods should have
more sense than to repeat old wives’
tales like that.”

The man gaped. She turned
away before he could speak, and
marched off to her chair. “To the
house!” she commanded her slaves.

They had her at the front en-
trance of the residence before it
struck her that she had not learned
the tremendous and precious secret
of the boiling fountain.

She caught Clane by surprise.
She entered the house in her flam-
boyant manner, and by the time a
slave saw her, and ran to his mas-
ter’s laboratory to bring the news
of her coming, it was too late. She
loomed in the doorway, as Clane
turned from a corpse he was dissect-
ing. To her immense disappoint-
ment he did not freeze up in one of
his emotional spasms. She had
expected it, and her plan was to
look over the laboratory quietly and
without interference.

But Clane came towards her.
“Honorable grandmother,” he said.
And knelt to kiss her hand. He

156

came up with an easy grace. “I
hope,” he said with an apparent
eagerness, “that you will have the
time and inclination to see my home
and my work. Both have interest-
ing features.”

His whole manner was so human,
so engaging, that she was discon-
certed anew, not an easy emotion
for her to experience. She shook
off the weakness impatiently. Her
first words affirmed her purpose in
visiting him :

“Yes,” she said, “I shall be happy
to see your home. I have been in-
tending for some years to visit you,
but I have been so busy.” She
sighed. “The duties of statecraft
can be very onerous.”

The beautiful face looked prop-
erly sympathetic. A delicate hand
pointed at the dead body, which
those slim fingers had been working
over. The soft voice informed that
the purpose of the dissection was
to discover the position pattern of
the organs and muscles and bones.

“I have cut open dead mutations,”
Clane said, “and compared them
with normal bodies.”

Lydia could not quite follow the
purpose. After all, each mutation
was different, depending upon the
way the god forces had affected
them. She said as much. The
glowing blue eyes of the mutation
looked at her speculatively.

“It is commonly known,” he said,
“that mutations seldom live beyond
the age of thirty.- Naturally,” he
went on, with a faint smile, “since
I am now within six years of that
milestone, the possibility weighs
upon me. Joquin, that astute old

ASTOUNDING SCIENCE-FICTION

a leader of high birth. I discovered
on my various journeys into the
pits, where the atom gods live, and
where once cities existed, that the
name was of legendary origin. This
is according to old books I found
in remnants of buildings.”

Lydia said, shocked: ‘‘You went
down into one of the reputed homes
of the gods, where the eternal fires
burn ?”

The knight chuckled. “Some of
them are less eternal than others,
I discovered.”

“But weren’t you afraid of being
physically damaged?”

“Madam,” shrugged the other,
“I am nearly fifty years old. Why
should I worry if my blood is slight-
ly damaged by the aura of the gods.”

Lydia hesitated, interested. But
she had let herself be drawn from
her purpose. “Prince,” she re-
peated now, grimly. Applied to
Clane, the title had a ring she didn’t
like. Prince Clane. It was rather
stunning to discover that there were
men who thought of him as a leader.
What had happened to the old
prejudices against mutations? She
was about to speak again when, for
the first time, she actually looked at
the fountain.

She pulled back with a gasp. The
water was bubbling. A mist of
steam arose from it. Her gaze shot
up to the spout, and now she saw
that it was not smoke and water
spewing up from it. It was boiling,
steaming water. Water that roiled
and rushed and roared. More hot
water than she had ever seen from
an artificial source. Memory came
of the blackened pots in which

slaves heated her daily hot water
needs. And she felt a spurt of
pure jealousy at the extravagant
luxury of a fountain of boiling
water on one’s grounds.

‘.‘But how does he do it?” she
gasped. “Has he tapped an under-
ground hot spring?”

“No madam, the water comes
from the stream over there?” The
knight pointed. “It is brought here
in tiled pipes, and then runs off into
the various guest homes.”

“Is there some arrangement of
hot coals?”

“Nothing, madam.” The knight
was beginning to enjoy himself visi-
bly. “There is an opening under
the fountain, and you can look in
if you wish.”

Lydia washed. She was fasci-
nated. She realized that she had
let herself be distracted, but for
the moment that w r as of secondary
importance. She watched with
bright eyes as the knight opened the
little door in the cement, and then
she stooped beside him to peer in.
It took several seconds to become
accustomed to the dim light inside,
but finally she was able to make
out the massive base of the spout,
and then the six-inch pipe that ran
into it. Lydia straightened slowly.
The man shut the door matter-of-
factly. As he turned, she asked:
“But how does it work?”

The night shrugged. “Some say
that the water gods of Mars have
been friendly to him ever since they
helped his late father to win the
'war against the Martians. You will
recall that the canal waters boiled
in a frightful fury, thus confusing

HAND OF THE GODS

155

scientist, who unfortunately is now
dead, believed that the deaths re-
sulted from inner tensions, due to
rho manner in which mutations were
treated by their fellows. He felt
that if those tensions could be re-
moved, as they have been to some
extent in me, a normal span of life
would follow as also would normal
intelligence. I’d better correct that.
He. believed that a mutation, given
a chance, would be able to realize
his normal potentialities, which
might be either super- or sub-
normal compared to human beings.”

Olaue smiled. “So far,” he said,
“I have noticed nothing out of the
ordinary in myself.”

Lydia thought of the boiling foun-
tain, and felt a chill. That old fool,
foqmn, she thought in a cold fury.
Why didn't J pay more attention to
what he was doing? He’s created an
alien mind in our midst within strik-
ing distance of the top of the power
group of the empire.

The sense of immense disaster
possibilities grew. Death, she
thought, within hours after the old
man is gone. No risks can be taken
with this creature.

Suddenly, she was interested in
nothing but the accessibility of the
various rooms of the house to as-
sassins. Clane seemed to realize
her mood, for after a brief tour
of the laboratory, of which she re-
membered little, he began the jour-
ney from room to room. Now, her
eyes and attention sharpened: She
peered into doors, examined win-
dow arrangements, and did not fail
to note with satisfaction the uni-
versal carpeting of the floors. Meerl

would be able to attack without
warning sounds.

“And your bedroom?” she asked
finally.

“We’re coming to it,” said Clane.
“It’s downstairs, adjoining the
laboratory. There’s something else
in the lab that I want to show you.
I wasn’t sure at first that I would,
but now” — his smile was angelic —
“I will.”

The corridor that led from the
living room to the bedroom was al-
most wide enough to be an ante-
room. The walls were hung with
drapes from floor to ceiling, which
was odd. Lydia, who had no in-
hibitions, lifted one drape, and
peered under it; The wall was
vaguely warm, like an ember, and
it was built of temple stone. She
looked at Clane questioningly.

“I have some god metals in the
house. Naturally, I am taking no
chances. There's another corridor
leading from the laboratory to the
bedroom.”

What interested Lydia was that
neither door of the bedroom had
either a lock or a bolt on it. She
thought about that tensely, as she
followed Clane through the ante-
room that led to the laboratory.
He wouldn’t, it seemed to her, leave
himself so unprotected forever.

The assassins must strike before
he grew alarmed, the sooner the
better. Regretfully, she decided it
would have to wait until Tews was
confirmed as heir to the throne.
She grew aware that Clane had
paused beside a dark box.

“Gelo Greeant,” he said, “brought

EiND OP THE GODS

157

this to me from one of his journeys
into the realms of the gods. I’m
going to step inside, and you go
around to the right there, and look
into the dark glass. You will be
amazed.”

Lydia obeyed, puzzled. For a
moment, after Clane had disap-
peared inside, the glass remained
dark. Then it began to glow faintly.
She retreated a step before that
alien shiningness, then, remember-
ing who she was, stood her ground.
And then she screamed.

A skeleton glowed through the
glass. And the shadow of a beat-
ing heart, the shadow of expanding
and contracting lungs. As she
watched, petrified now, the skele-
ton arm moved, and seemed to come
towards her, but drew back again.
To her paralyzed brain came at last
comprehension.

She was looking at the inside of
a living human being. At Clane.
Abruptly, that interested her.
Clane. Like lightning, her eyes ex-
amined his bone structure. She
noticed the cluster of ribs around
his heart and lungs, the special
thickness of his collar bones. Her
gaze flashed down towards his
kidneys, but this time she was too
slow. The light faded, and went
out. Clane emerged from the box.

“Well,” he asked, pleased, “what
do you think of my little gift from
the gods?”

The phraseology startled Lydia.
All the way home, she thought of
it. Gift from the gods! In a sense
it was. The atom gods had sent
their mutation a method for seeing

158

himself, for studying his own body.
What could their purpose be?

She had a conviction that, if the
gods really existed, and if, as
seemed evident, they were helping
Clane, then the Deities of the Atom
were again — as they had in legend-
ary times— interfering with human
affairs.

The sinking sensation that came
had only one hopeful rhythm. And
that was like a drumbeat inside her :
Kill! And soon. Soon!

But the days passed. And the
demands of political stability ab-
sorbed all her attention. Neverthe-
less, in the midst of a score of new
troubles, she did not forget Clane.

The return of Tews was a tri-
umph for his mother’s diplomacy
and a great moment for himself.
His ship came down in the square
of the pillars, and there, before an
immense cheering throng, he was
welcomed by the Lord Leader and
the entire patronate. The parade
that followed was led by a unit of
five thousand glitteringly arrayed
horse-mounted troops, followed by
ten thousand foot soldiers, one thou-
san engineers and scores of mechan-
ical engines for throwing weights
and rocks at defensive barriers.
Then came the Lord Leader, Lydia
and Tews, and the three hundred
patrons and six hundred knights of
the empire. The rear of the parade
was brought up by another cavalry
unit of five thousand men,

From the rostrum that jutted out
from the palace, the Lord Leader,
his lion’s voice undimmed by age.
welcomed his stepson. All the lies

ASTOUNDING SCIENCE FICTION

of the greatest military tri-
umf.ii the empire has ever experi-
enced, the conquest of the Mar-
tians. Today, as I stand before you,
no longer young, no longer able to
bear the full weight of either mili-
tary or political command, it is an
immeasurable relief to me to be able
to tell the people with confidence
and conviction : Here in this modest
and unassuming member of my
family, the son of my dear wife,
Lydia, I ask you to put your trust.
To the soldiers I say, this is no
weakling. Remember the Cimbri,
conquered under his skillful gen-
eralship when he was but a youth
of twenty-five. Particularly, I
direct my words to the hard-pressed
soldiers on Venus, where false
leaders have misled the island prov-
inces of the fierce Venusian tribes
to an ill-fated rebellion. Ill-fated,
I say, because as soon as possible
Tews will be there with the largest
army assembled by the empire since
the war of the Martians. I am
going to venture a prediction. I am
going to predict that within two
years the Venusian leaders will be
hanging on long lines of posts of
the type they are now using to mur-
der prisoners. I predict that these
hangings will be achieved by Co-
Lord Leader General Tews, whom
I now publicly appoint my heir and
successor, and on whose behalf I
now say. Take warning, all those
who would have ill befall the empire.
Here is the man who will confound
you and your schemes.’'

The dazzled Tews, who had been
advised by his mother to the extent
of the victory she had won for him,
160

stepped forward to acknowledge
the cheers and to say a few words.
“Not too much,” his mother had
warned him. “Be noncommittal.”
But Lord Tews had other plans. He
had carefully thought out the pat-
tern of his future actions, and he
had one announcement to make, in
addition to a ringing acceptance of
the military leadership that had been
offered him, and a promise that the
Venusian leaders would indeed
suffer the fate which the Linn of
Linn had promised them, the an-
nouncement had to do with the title
of Co-Lord Leader, which had been
bestowed on him.

“I am sure,” he told the crowd,
“that you will agree with me that
the title of Lord Leader belongs
uniquely to the first and greatest
man of Linn. I therefore request,
and will hold it mandatory upon
government leaders, that I be ad-
dressed as Lord Adviser. It shall
be my pleasure to act as adviser
to both the Lord Leader and to
the patronate, and it is in this role
that I wish to be known henceforth
to the people of the mighty Linnan
empire. Thank you for listening
to me, and I now advise you that
there will be games for three days
in the bowls, and that free food will
be served throughout the city during
that time at my expense. Go and
have a good time, and may the gods
of the atoms bring you all good
luck.”

During the first minute after he
had finished, Lydia was appalled.
Was Tews mad to have refused the
title of Lord Leader? The joyful

ASTOUND I NO SCIENCE-FICTION

yelping or the mob soothed her a
little, and then, slowly, as she fol-
lowed Tews and the old man along
the promenade that led from the
rostrum to the palace gates, she be-
gan to realize the cleverness of the
new title. Lord Adviser. Why,
it would be a veritable shield against
the charges ef those who were al-
ways striving to rouse the people
against the absolute government of
the Linns. It was clear that the
long exile had sharpened rather
t han dulled the mind of her son.

'['he Lord Leader, too, as the days
passed, and the new character of
Tews came to the fore, was having
regrets. Certain restrictions, which
he had imposed upon his stepson
during his residence on Awai,
seemed unduly severe and ill-
advised in retrospect. He should
not, for instance, have permitted
Tews’ wife to divorce him, but
should instead have insisted that
she accompany him.

It seemed to him now that there
was only one solution. He rushed
the marriage between Tews and
Gud run, and then dispatched them
to Venus on their honeymoon, tak-
ing the precaution of sending a
quarter of a million men along, so
that the future Lord Leader could
combine his love-making with war-
making.

Having solved his main troubles,
the Lord Leader gave himself, up
to the chore of aging gracefully
and of thinking out ways and means
whereby his other heirs might be
spared from the death which the
thoughtful Lydia was undoubtedly
planning for them.

H A V D OF THU GODS

The Lord Leader was dying. He
lay in his bed of pillows sweating
out his last hours. All the wiles of
the palace physician— including an
ice-cold bath, a favorite remedy of
his, failed to rally the stricken great
man. In a few hours, the patron-
ate was informed, and state leaders
were invited to officiate at the death
bed. The Linn of Linn had some
years before introduced a law to
the effect that no ruler was ever
to be allowed to die incommunicado.
It was a thoughtful precaution
against poisoning, which he had
considered extremely astute at the
time, but which now, as he watched
the crowds surging outside the open
doors of his bedroom, and listened
to the subdued roar of voices,
seemed somewhat less than dig-
nified.

He motioned to Lydia. She came
gliding over, and nodded at his
request that the door be closed.
Some of the people in the bedroom
looked at each other, as she shooed
them away, but the mild voice of the
Lord Leader urged them, and so
they trooped out. It took about
ten minutes to clear the room. The
Lord Leader lay, then, looking sad-
ly up at his wife. He had an un-
pleasant duty to perform, and the
unfortunate atmosphere of immi-
nent death made the affair not less
but more sordid. He began without
preliminary :

“In recent years I have frequent-
ly hinted to you about fears I have
had about the health of my relatives.
Your reactions have left me no re-
course but to doubt that you now
have left in your heart any of the

tender feelings which are supposed
to be the common possession of
womankind."

“What’s this?" said Lydia. She
had her first flash of insight as to
what was coming. She said grimly,
“My dear husband, have you gone
out of your head ?" •

The Lord Leader went on calmly :
“For once, Lydia, I am not going
to speak in diplomatic language.
Do not go through with your plans
to have my relatives assassinated as
soon as I am dead."

The language was too strong for
the woman. The color deserted her
cheeks, and she was suddenly as
pale as lead. “I," she breathed,
“kill your kin !”

The once steel-gray, now watery
eyes stared at her with remorseless
purpose. “I have put Jerrin and
Draid beyond your reach. They
are in command of powerful armies,
and my will leaves explicit instruc-
tions about their future. Some of
the men, who are administrators,
are likewise protected to some ex-
tent. The women are not so for-
tunate. My own two daughters are
safe, I think. The elder is childless
and without ambition, and Gudrun
is now the wife of Tews. But I
want a promise from you that you
will not attempt to harm her, and
that you will similarly refrain from
taking any action against her three
children, by her first marriage. I
want your promise to include the
children of my two cousins, my
brother and sister, and all their
descendants, and finally I want a
promise from you about the Lady
182

Tania, her two daughters, and her
son, Lord Clane."

“Clane!" said Lydia. Her mind
had started working as he talked.
It leaped past the immense insult
she was being offered, past all the
names, to that one individual. She
spoke the name again, more loudly :
“Clane 1”

Her eyes were distorted pools.
She glared at her husband with a
bitter intensity. “And what," she
said, “makes you think, who suspect
me capable of such crimes, that I
would keep such a promise to a
dead man?”

The old man was- suddenly less
bleak. “Because, Lydia," he said
quietly, “you are more than just a
mother protecting her young. You
are the Lady Leader whose political
sagacity and general intelligence
made possible the virtually united
empire, which Tews will now in-
herit. You are at heart an honest
woman, and if you made me a
promise I think you would keep it."

She knew he was merely hoping
now. And her calmness came back.
She watched him with bright eyes,
conscious of how weak was the
power of a dying man, no matter
how desperately he strove to fasten
his desires and wishes upon his
descendants.

“Very well, my old darling," she
soothed him, “I will make you the
promise you wish. I guarantee not
to murder any of these people you
have mentioned."

The Lord Leader gazed at her in
despair. He had, he realized, not
remotely touched her. This woman's

ASTOUNDING SCIENOE-FTCTION

basic integrity — and he-knew it was
there — could no longer be reached
through her emotions. He aban-
doned that line immediately.

“Lydia/’ he said, “don’t anger
Clane by trying to kill him.”

“Anger him!” said Lydia. She
spoke sharply, because the phrase
was so unexpected. She gazed at
her husband with a startled wonder,
as if she couldn’t be quite sure
that she had heard him correctly.
She repeated the words slowly,
listening to them as if she somehow
might catch their secret meaning:
“Anger him?”

“You must realize,” said the Lord
Leader, “that you have from fifteen
to twenty years of life to endure
after my death, provided you hoard
your physical energies. If you spend
those years trying to run the world
through Tews, you will quickly and
quite properly be discarded by him.
That is something which is not yet
clear to you, and so I advise you
to reorientate yourself. You must
seek your power through other men.
Jerrin will not need you, and Draid
needs only Jerrin. Tews can and
will dispense with you. That leaves
Clane, of the great men. He can
use you. Through him, therefore,
you will be able to retain a measure
of your power.”

Her gaze was on his mouth every
moment that he talked. She listened
as his voice grew weaker, and finally
trailed into nothingness. In the
silence that fell between them, Lydia
sat comprehending at last, so it
seemed to her. This was Clane
talking through his dying grand-
father. This was Clane’s cunning

HAND OF THE GODS

appeal to the Jears she might have
for her own future. The Clane who
had frustrated her designs on the
slave girl, Selk, was now desperately
striving to anticipate her designs on
him.

Deep inside her, as she sat there
watching the old man die, she
laughed. Three months before,
recognizing the signals of internal
disintegration in her husband, she
had insisted that Tews be recalled
from Venus, and Jerrin appointed
in his place. Her skill in timing
was now' bearing fruit, and it was
working out even better than she
had hoped. It would be at least
a week before Tews’ spaceship
would arrive at Linn. During that
week the widow Lydia would be all-
powerful.

It was possible that she would
have to abandon her plans against
some of the other members of the
family. But they at least w'ere
human. It was Clane, the alien, the
creature, the nonhuman, who must
be destroyed at any cost.

She had one week in which she
could, if necessary, use three whole
legions and a hundred spaceships
to smash him and the gods that had
made him.

The long, tense conversation had
dimmed the spark of life in the Lord
Leader. Ten minutes before sun-
set, the great throngs outside saw'
the gates open, and Lydia leaning
on the arms of two old patrons came
dragging out, followed by a crowd
of noblemen. In a moment it was
general knowledge that the Linn of
Linn was dead.

Darkness settled over a city that

let

for fifty years had known no other
ruler.

Lydia wakened lazily on the mor-
row of the death of the Lord Leader.
She stretched and yawned de-
liciously. reveling in the cool, clean
sheets. Then she opened her eyes,
and stared at the ceiling. Bright
sunlight was pouring through open
windows, and Dalat hovered at the
end of the bed.

•‘You asked to be wakened early,
honorable lady/' she said.

There was a note of respect in
her voice that Lydia had never
noticed before. Her mind poised,
pondering the imponderable differ-
ence. And then she got it. The
Linn was dead. For one week, she
was not the legal but the de facto
head of the city and state. None
would dare to oppose the mother of
the new Leader — uh, the Lord Ad-
viser Tews. Glowing, Lydia sat up
in the bed.

'‘Has there been any word yet
from Meerl?”

“None, gracious lady.”

She frowned over that. Her as-
sassin had formed a relationship
with her, which she had first ac-
cepted reluctantly, then, recognizing
its value, with smiling grace. He
had access to her bedroom at all
hours of the day or night. And it
was rather surprising that he to
whom she had intrusted such an
important errand, should not have
reported long since.

Dalat was speaking again. “I
think, madam, you should inform
him, however, that it is unwise for
him to have parcels delivered here

addressed to himself in your care.”

Lydia was climbing out of bed.
She looked up, astounded and angry.

“Why, the insolent fool, has he
done that? Let me see the parcel.”

She tore off the wrapping, furi-
ously. And found herself staring
down at a vase filled with ashes.
A note was tied around the lip of
the vase. Puzzled, she turned it
over and read:

Dear Madam:

Your assassin was too moist. The atom
gods, once roused, become frantic in the
presence of moisture.

Signed, Uranium
For the council of gods.

CRASH! The sound of the vase
smashing on the floor shocked her
out of a blur of numbness. Wide-
eyed, she stared down at the little
pile of ashes amid the broken pieces
of pottery. With tense fingers she
reached down, and picked up the
note. This time, not the meaning
of the note, but the signature,
snatched at her attention : Uranium.

It was like a dash of cold water.
With bleak eyes, she gazed at the
ashes of what had been Meerl, her
most trustworthy assassin. She
realized consciously that she felt
this death more keenly than that of
her husband. The old man had
hung on too long. So long as life
continued in his bones, he had the
power to make changes. When he
had finally breathed his last, she
had breathed easily for the first time
in years, as if a weight had lifted
from her soul.

But now — a new weight began to
settle in its place, and her breath

ASTOUNDING SCIENCE - FICTION

came in quick gasps. She kicked the skillful, Meerl the bold and

viciously at the ashes, as if she brave and daring 1

would shove the meaning of them “Dalat !”

out of her life. How could Meerl. “Yes, Lady?”

have failed? Meerl, the cautious, With narrowed eyes and pursed

HAND OF THE GODS

1«5

lips, Lydia considered the action she
was contemplating. But not for
Ifing.

“Call Colonel Maljan. Tell him
to come at once.”

She had one week to kill a man.
It was time to come out into the
open.

Lydia had herself carried to the
foot of the hill that led up to the
estate of Lord^Clane. She wore
a heavy veil and used as carriers
slaves who had never appeared with
her in public, and an old, unmarked
chair of one of her ladies in waiting.
Her eyes, that peered out of this
excellent disguise, were bright with
excitement.

The morning was unnaturally hot.
Blasts of warm air came sweeping
down the hill from the direction of
Clane’s house. And, after a little,
she saw that the soldiers one hun-
dred yards up the hill, had stopped.
The pause grew long and puzzling,
and she was just about to climb out
of the chair, when she saw Maljan
coming towards her. The dark-
eyed, hawk-nosed officer was sweat-
ing visibly.

“Madam,” he said, “we cannot
get near that fence up there. It
seems to be on fire.”

“I can see no flame.” Curtly.

“It isn't that kind of a fire.”

Lydia was amazed to see that the
man was trembling with fright.
“There’s something unnatural up
there,” he said. “I don’t like it.”

She came out of her chair then,
the chill of defeat settling upon
her. “Are you an idiot?” she
snarled. “If you can’t get past the
166

fence, drop men from spaceships
into the grounds.”

“I’ve already sent for them,” he
said, “but — ”

“BUT!” said Lydia, and it was
a curse. “I’ll go up and have a look
at that fence myself.”

She went up, and stopped short
where the soldiers were gasping on
the ground. The heat had already
blasted at her, but at that point it
took her breath away. She felt as
if her lungs would sear inside her.
In a minute her throat was ash dry.

She stooped behind a bush. But
it was no good. She saw that the
leaves had seared and darkened.
And then she was retreating behind
a little knoblike depression in the
hill. She crouched behind it, too
appalled to think. She grew aware
of Maljan working up towards her.
He arrived, gasping, and it was sev-
eral seconds before he could speak.
Then he pointed up.

“The ships!” he said.

She watched them creep in low
over the trees. They listed a little
as they crossed the fence, then sank
out of sight behind the trees that hid
the meadow of Clane’s estate. Five
ships in all came into sight and
disappeared over the rim of the
estate. Lydia was keenly aware
that their arrival relieved the sol-
diers sprawling helplessly all around
her.

“Tell the men to get down the
hill,” she commanded hoarsely, and
made the hastiest retreat of all.

The street below was still almost
deserted. A few people had paused
to watch in a puzzled fashion the
Activities of the soldiers, but they

ASTOUNDING SCIENCE-FICTION

moved on when commanded to do so
by guards who had been posted in
the road.

It was something to know that the
campaign was still a private affair.

She waited. No sound came
from beyond the trees where the
ships had gone. It was as if they
had fallen over some precipice into
an abyss of silence. Half an hour
went by, and then, abruptly, a ship
came into sight. Lydia caught her
breath, then watched the machine
float towards them over the trees,
and settle in the road below'. A
man in uniform came out. Maljan
waved at him, and ran over to meet
him. The conversation that fol-
lowed was very earnest. At last
Maljan turned, and with evident
reluctance came towards her. He
said in a low tone :

“The house itself is offering an
impregnable heat barrier. But
they have talked to Lord Clane.
He wants to speak to you/'

She took that with a tense
thoughtfulness. The realization
had already penetrated deep that
this stalemate might go on for
days.

If I could get near him, she de-
cided, remorselessly, by pretending
to consider his proposals —

It seemed to work perfectly.
By the time the spaceship lifted
her over the fence, the heat that
exuded from the walls of the
house had died away to a bearable
temperature. And, incredibly,
Clane agreed that she could bring
a dozen soldiers into the house
as guards.

HAND OF THE GODS

As she entered the house, she
had her first sense of eeriness.
There was no one around, not a
slave, not a movement of life. She
headed in the direction of the bed-
room, more slowly with each step.
The first grudging admiration
came. It seemed unbelievable that
his preparations could have been
so thorough as to include the
evacuation of all his slaves. And
yet it all fitted. Not once in her
dealings with him had he made a
mistake.

“Grandmother, I wouldn’t come
any closer.”

She stopped short. She saw
that she had come to within a yard
of the corridor that led to his bed-
room. Clane was standing at the
far end, and he seemed to be quite
alone and undefended.

"Come any nearer,” he said,
"and death will strike you automati-
cally.”

She could see nothing unusual.
The corridor was much as she
remembered it. The drapes had
been taken down from the walls,
revealing the temple stone under-
neath. And yet, standing there,
she felt a faint warmth, unnatural
and, suddenly, deadly. It was only
with an effort that she threw off
the feeling. She parted her lips
to give the command, but Clane
spoke first:

"Grandmother, do nothing rash.
Consider, before you defy the
powers of the atom. Has what
happened today not yet penetrated
to your intelligence? Surely, you
can see that whom the gods love
no mortal can harm.”

a #7

The woman was bleak with her
purpose. “You have misquoted
the old saying,” she said drably.
‘Whom the gods love die young.”

And yet, once more, she hesi-
tated. The stunning thing was that
he continued to stand there less
than thirty feet away, unarmed,
unprotected, a faint smile on his
lips. How far he has come, she
thought. His nervous affliction,
conquered now. And what a
marvelously beautiful face, so
calm, so confident.

Confident ! Could it be that
there were gods?

Could it be?

“Grandmother, J. warn you,
make no move. If you must prove
that the gods will strike on my be-
half, send your soldiers. BUT DO
NOT MOVE YOURSELF.”

She felt weak, her legs numb.
The conviction that was pouring
through her, the certainty that he
was not bluffing brought a paral-
lel realization that she could not
back down. And yet she must.

She recognized that there was
insanity in her terrible indecision.
And knew, then, that she was not
a person who was capable of con-
scious suicide. Therefore, quit,
retreat, accept the reality of rout.

She parted her lips to give the
order to retire when it happened

What motive impelled the sol-
dier to action was never clear.
Perhaps he grew impatient. Per-
haps he felt there would be promo-
tion for him. Whatever the rea-
son, he suddenly cried out, “I’ll
108

get his gizzard for you !” And
leaped forward.

He had not gone more than a
half dozen feet past Lydia when
he began to disintegrate. He
crumpled like an empty sack.
Where he had been, a mist of
ashes floated lazily to the floor.

There was one burst of heat,
then. It came in a gust of un-
earthly hot wind, barely touched
Lydia, who had instinctively jerked
aside, but struck the soldiers be-
hind her. There was a hideous
masculine squalling and whimper-
ing, followed by a mad scramble.
A door slammed, and she was alone.
She straightened, conscious that the
air from the corridor was still
blowing hot. She remained cau-
tiously where she was, and called :

“Clane !”

The answer came instantly.
“Yes, grandmother?”

For a moment, then, she hesi-
tated, experiencing all the agony
of a general about to surrender.
At last, slowly:

“What do you want?”

“An end to attacks on me. Full
political co-operation, but people
must remain unaware of it as long
as we can possibly manage it.”
“Oh!”

She began to breathe easier. She
had had a fear that he would de-
mand public recognition.

“And if I don!t?” she said at
last.

“Death!”

It was quietly spoken. The
woman did not even think to
doubt. She was being given a
chance. But there was one thing

A8TOUNDING SCIENCE-FICTIOtf

more, one tremendous thing more.

“Clane, is your ultimate goal the
Lord Leadership?”

“No r

His answer was too prompt.
She felt a thrill of disbelief, a sick
conviction that he was lying. But
she was glad after a moment that
he had denied. In a sense it bound
him. Her thoughts soared to all
the possibilities of the situation,
then came down again to the sober
necessity of this instant.

“Very well,” she said, and it was
little more than a sigh, “I accept.”

Back at the palace, she sent an
assassin to perform an essential
operation against the one outsider
who knew the Lady Lydia had
suffered a major defeat. It was
late afternoon when the double re-
port came in : The exciting informa-
tion that Tews had landed sooner
than anticipated, and was even then
on his way to the palace. And the
satisfying words that Colonel Mal-
jan lay dead in an alleyway with a
knife in one of his kidneys.

It was only then that it struck
her that she was now in the exact
position that her dead husband had
advised for her own safety and
well-being.

Tears and the realization of her
great loss came as late as that.

THE END.

Lieutenant Treat was a beauty. A Navy
nurse. She expected to hear from her
fiance that day in Honolulu . . . but
she didn't. Instead,
she got a strange
message that led to
a mess of bloodshed
and horror!

MESSAGE OF

LOVE...

OR

MESSAGE OF

HATE?

It was time for Pat
Sovage, lovely
cousin of Doc Sav-
age, to come to the
rescue . . . she
thought! But Doc
himself thought
differently — and
went to a lot of

trouble to prove it.

HAND OP THE GODS

169

BRASS TACKS

We're not through making changes,
either! Watch that title on the
cover l

Dear Mr. Campbell:

Your prophecy that the June
issue of Astounding would have
some improvements was certainly
fulfilled, particularly concerning the
art work. The inside illustrations
were better than the cover ; particu-
larly excellent was the one for “The
Chronokinesis of Jonathan Hull.”
Keep Swenson.

t “Measuring Rod” was the best
article on Moon Contact I have
read anywhere, and believe me, I’ve
seen plenty. It covered most of
the problems and phases of the
operation, and yet did not get too
complicated for even the most non-
technical reader.

Now for a few cryptic com-
ments: Rocklynne’s space ^)pera of
“The Bottled Men” wasn’t so bad.
Plot of “Forecast” was rather thin,
although some of the ideas were
interesting. Boucher’s story the

170

best in the issue. Is Sturgeon slip-
ping? From his last few stories,
it would seem so.

All in all, a right good issue.
Let’s have more stories of the
Foundation and more by Fritz
Leiber.

In case this sees light in Brass
Tacks, I would like to say to all
readers of imaginative fiction that
live in North Carolina, that plans
are in progress for an organization
to bring together all fans in this
state and to further the interests of
science fiction. You owe it to your-
self to look into the matter further.
A postal or letter to me will bring
details. Please rally round ! — Andy
Lyon, 200 Williamsboro Street,
Oxford, North Carolina.

“ Meihem ” seemed quite popular.

Dear Mr. Campbell:

Here are my ratings for the Sep-
tember Astounding.

1 — “Vintage Season.” I believe

ASTOUNDING SCIENCE-FICTION

that this story could be called a
“triple A.” A wonderful bit of
writing. I don't believe I need to
say more.

2. — “Evidence.” Again a good
story for which little criticism is
needed. This would be B plus on
my scale, better than normal.

3 — “Blind Time.” A good B
story. Enough paradox to be amus-
ing, enough thought to be good on
that count. Aside from the fact
that the burning of Peter's hand as
the “searing pain” is not too clearly
put, it was continuous.

A — “The Toymaker.” B — . A rea-
sonably good story, but no punch.

5 — “Slaves of the Lamp.” Same
criticism.

Articles :

1 — “Second Approximation.”

2 — “Meihem in Ce Klasrum” —
very nice idea. Send it to Washing-
ton and let them read it.

3 — “Congress is too busy” — Have
heard it before. — Timothy Orrok,
5 Cleveland Street, Cambridge 38,
Massachusetts.

The answers, in general terms.

Dear John:

This is in reply to Jerry Shelton’s
paging in the September Issue. I
don’t know the answer to question
No. 3, and I am at the present mo-
ment not too much interested in
how a fly lands on a ceiling, but
I do know what to answer to ques-
tions No. 1, 2 and 4.

Question No, 1. Of course the

axis of the shell continues to point
in the direction which it had in the
gun barrel. You might also say
that the longitudinal axis of a rotat-
ing shell, if fired with a speed con-
siderably exceeding the speed of
sound, maintains the gun's elevation.
In an airless space that would apply
strictly, what air resistance does to
the shell will be discussed later.

Question No. 2. A shell fired at
an angle of between 70 and 90 de-
grees will surely land on its tail,
especially if it is a shell with a so-
called “windshield” or hollow nose.
The Germans specialized during
two wars in very heavy siege ar-
tillery, firing shells of a ton or more
at a minimum angle of 68 degrees.
They were all base fuzed and I
don't think that was an accident

Question No. 3. I don’t know
the answer to that.

Question No. 4. It is not simply
a question of elevation, but a me-
lange of a long list of factors, of
which the elevation of the gun and
the position of the center of gravity
in relation to the center of air re-
sistance are the most important.
Since there are so many factors
involved, the chance that the shell
will strike the target in a position
which makes the fuze go off is high,
but “belly landings” without ex-
plosion are fairly customary in ex-
perimental types. Explosions on
the bounce are also not at all rare
if a battery fires at extreme range.

Now, after these specific answers
let’s have a look at what happens
to a shell fired at an elevation of 45
degrees with a muzzle velocity
higher than twice the velocity of

BRASS TACKS

171

sound. At first longitudinal axis
and tangent to the trajectory very
nearly coincide, the ‘‘center of air
resistance” is located just behind
the nose of the shell. But as the
shell progresses along its trajectory,
the angle between longitudinal axis
and tangent to the trajectory in-
creases — it can be a Right angle
just before hitting or about 45 de-
grees to the ground — and the
center of air resistance slides down.
The forces tend to turn the shell
over, up and backward so that, if
they succeeded, the shell might con-
tinue bottom first, until it is turned
over again. Such behavior has
actually been observed in poorly
balanced projectiles that did not
rotate fast enough. But if the pro-
jectile is well balanced and rotates
fast enough, we have, in effect, a
gyroscope.

Being a gyroscope, precession is
inevitable, with the result that the
axis of the shell is forced somewhat
off the trajectory, either to the right
or to the left, depending on whether
the rotation is clockwise or counter-
clockwise.

The motion of the point of the
shell, as a result of all this, looks
like a pulled-out spring, while the
longitudinal axis of the shell traces
cones into the air. The center line
of the “spring” does NOT coincide
with the trajectory, in fact the
whole “spring” lies outside the
trajectory, usually to the right.
Center line of the motion of the
shell’s head and trajectory are
parallel to each other. The center
of the shell’s bottom describes a
similar movement, but much smaller.

172

If the designer is very skillful —
and somewhat lucky — he will suc-
ceed in fitting rotation, precession,
balancing et cetera together in such
a manner that the axis of the shell
will reasonably agree with the direc-
tion of the trajectory, whatever lack
of agreement there is will show up
the more the longer the range.

But that, gentlemen, is only part
of the story. The spinning shell
is “of course,” subject to the Mag-
nus Effect, the same effect which
was utilized in the so-called Flettner
rotors. Since the shell takes some
of the air along, one side of the
shell will show a reduction in air
density, the other an increase. The
Magnus effect tends to push the
slftll sidewise, in the opposite direc-
tion in which the spinning shell
itself tends to act. There is another
air resistance factor which, in turn,
tries to cancel out the Magnus effect.
Which of the two is stronger, de-
pends mostly on the elevation of the
gun, beginning with about 60 de-
grees the Magnus effect usually gets
the upper hand. A Russian howit-
zer of the vintage of 1903 succeeded
to land its shells behind its own
position when fired at elevations
above 60 degrees in a high wind.
( That started investigation of the
Magnus efFect which then did not
have a name.)

All this is a simplified picture
of the movement of a shell fired with
supersonic velocity. A shell fired
with subsonic velocity acts differ-
ently, here we find that everything
gets so much worse that spin just
does not provide a good stabilization
any more. Hence stabilization after

ASTOCNDTNG SCIENCB'S’tCTION

the principle of die arrow is used,
with tail fins which artificially pro-
duce air resistance at the extreme
tail end. It is for this reason that
slow projectiles, like mortar shells
and bombardment rockets, have tail
fins.

The combination of tail fins,
heavy nose and lack of spin actu-
ally forces the longitudinal axis to
follow the trajectory ; but that
works for subsonic velocities only.
—Willy Ley.

\

“ World of A may have a sequel —

some time. Van Vogt’s not very

definite!

Dear Mr. Campbell:

For the August issue of ASF my
ratings are:

1. Child of the Gods

2. Slaves of the Lamp

3. The Last Objective

4. Bankruptcy Proceedings

5. The Cat and the King

As a psychologist I read this issue
with mixed feelings. “The Last
Objective” raised my temperature.
As you say, warnings are all right
but why pessimism? With a steady
diet of it a person is inclined to
say, “What’s the use,” and lay down
his tools with a morose look on his
face. I don't mind warnings but
I like to have them end with the
theme that we can tackle anything — •
even if we can’t. It is a much
healthier philosophy. And that
Carpenter should have been called
anything but a psychologist. Be-
fore a man in my profession can

even think ui being a success he
should have the ability to make
people at ease, to make people like
him. The team of the cruiser should
ha\'e been integrated to the fullest
extent by Carpenter’s presence.
Somehow I like to read stories like
that though. Carter put all his con-
flicts on paper. It is easier to
analyze a man after finishing such
a story than after a ten hour talk
with the man himself.

In Brass Tacks I have not seen
the appraisal that “The World of
A” deserves. Quite a while ago
I tore out the three installments
of that story and put it under one
cover. I have been passing it
around to several of my friends who
are nonreaders of ASF. The reac-
tions have been many. One woman
who is very well read but lacks a

-

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BRASS TACKS

four-dimensional aspect was shocked
by the whole thing. It just wasn’t
literature. She was deplored that
I read such trash. It took me sev-
eral hours of argument to make
her concede that there was some-
thing in it. She was especially horri-
fied by the Machine. Even though
it was as complex as a man she
could not visualize a hunk of glass
and metal with a soul. As far as
I am concerned it is the complex-
ness and organization of the mat-
ter that makes the so-called soul.
When that organization is destroyed,
the soul is destroyed. (I still be-
lieve in immortality : your conscious-
ness continues in another body with
other thoughts. I would hate an
immortal life in “Heaven” as I
would hate it on earth. With the
continuation of the consciousness
I may find myself some day in an
integrated body like Gosseyn’s with-
out the warps of my present mind
and I can also see how “it” turns
out. The desire of the preserva-
tion of the Self is a development
of the same phychology that Zagat
uses in “Slaves of the Lamp.”)

A physicist friend had quite a
different reaction to the Machine.
He immediately drew a rough
sketch of a neuron tube saying that
an electronic brain could not be
built today only because we had
next to no idea of how the circuits
of the brain were connected and
why.

He liked van Vogt’s ingravity
plates for the simple reason that
they required power. He was very
disheartened that the slowest fall
ever clocked was five miles an hour.

174

Even with reduced gravity a man
would accelerate. To me the in-
gravity parachute was just an ex-
ample of how Null A would work.

Immediately after reading the
theory of the multitudinous Gos-
seyns a biologist friend presented a
theory of developing the genes with-
out fertilization. It was highly
speculative and required a great deal
of original research in all biological
fields. He seemed very intrigued
by the idea and talked to me for
several hours on it. In giving all
the Gosseyns the same thoughts he
disregarded the Similarity Laws
using instead a mental telepath re-
ceiver and amplifier. (About the
same thing as far as I’m concerned.
That does not mean I do not believe
in mental telepathy. I’ve had it
happen to me several times.)

I did not criticize the novel from
the same viewpoint as my friends.
I thought — and they — that van
Vogt did a marvelous job in giving
us an idea on the complexity of
future science. Every word he put
in the story suggested ten words
behind it. Each individual gadget
did not receive my concentrated at-
tention, I let them form a back-
ground to the story in a w^y that
only van Vogt can do.

In the realm of his good job we
did not include the Similarity Con-
cept though vV developed it ex-
cellently. It was all right for the
stellar ship and the distorter and
some of the other contrivances but
when Gosseyn started passing
through walls and making matter
disappear by focusing two cubes
together and making a doorknob

ASTOUNDING SCIENCE-FICTION

look like a cat why that was too
much to swallow. It is that same
desire that van Vogt naively puts
in his story that has made man
turn out autos and planes and will
make him turn out rockets and
pneumotrains in the future. I sup-
pose that if a stellar ship could do
it Gosseyri’s brain could do it but
I still have to see a man — mutant
or otherwise — exude rayon from a
hole in his skull or emit radar
waves. What are machines good
for anyway? I like to think that
Gosseyn did not go through the
wall, that he escaped by some very
human method that only a stimulated
man resorts to (adrenaline and all
that). And then, the novel was
not based on Similarity. The con-
cept was just a girder in a great
building; if it was gone the build-
ing would not collapse.

Out of the “World of A” I have
taken more sound psychology than
from any one of the books on my
shelves and in a much more read-
able form. A person can get a lot
from a book like that if he looks.
It can do a lot to unwarp a man’s
mind, to make him see the world
more clearly.

Van Vogt presented an educa-
tional program which is man’s only
means of saving himself. (I have
seen such a plan before, including
non-Aristotelianism, but only as a
factual skeleton.) It is a program
we could start developing now. We
should but we probably won’t until
after the third world war — -after we
recover. And what a war that’s
going to be. Has any one heard
about the new Russian rocket that

BRASS TACK a

has been bombarding Sweden. I
have calculated that its range must
be at least 350 miles if it starts
from Peenemunde. Its maximum
range is probably much greater as
one came over Stockholm horizon-
tally with its motors on using, pos-
sibly, some device to correct for
its inaccuracies. Getting back to
van Vogt, would it be possible to
have him or some other writer give
us a story about how such an educa-
tional program will start?

I am eager to compare “The
World of A” with “Sian” which
I am buying from Arkham House,
Sauk City, Wisconsin, for $2.50. It
should be out by December. And
how about spurring another super
story out of van Vogt before the
allqted five or six years are up or
how about one from Campbell (like
the “Mightiest Machine”) or are
editors too busy ? And by the way
what has happened to E. E. Smith
and Heinlein or have they kicked
off?

I put Jones’ story at the bottom
of my list because I don’t like stories
about corrupt capitalists. There are
some, of course, but they receive
far too much publicity for their
numbers. What about a story of a
Ford or Greyhound of the future
who is not fighting one of these
corrupt companies?

Did Orban graduate or did he
die? He was the best illustrator I
have ever seen in science-fiction.
The only thing he could not draw
was spaceships. Swenson is better
than most illustrators who have ap-
peared in Astounding. He goes in
for exactly the opposite effect from
IT#

Orban and therefore they are hard-
ly comparable. His first spaceships
appeared in August issue. The one
on page 156 was terrible; worse
than Williams’ pointed nosed craft.
As to the illustration on page 39 1
still say it will be cold in New Eng-
land in the 25th century, atomic
energy notwithstanding.

And while I am at it tell Latham
to keep time machines out of his
stories when they are not necessary.
He has a funny idea of the future.
Everything is just the same, only
bigger. I maintain that no one will
ever build a 300-inch telescope on
a planet the size of Earth — never
ever. Read the problems of the 200-
incher and see if you don’t agree.
Space is the only place for tele-
scopes and besides with a Farns-
worth tube electron telescope what
is the use? And also tell Mr.
Latham that there ain’t gonna be
no fourth world war leastwise not
until 2250 A.D. !!!

Puff Puff! — W. P. Key, 9 Elm
Street, Middletown, Vermont.

Yep, zve did get a raft of letters!

Dear Mr. Campbell:

Spelling reform is one of those
queer things that attract interest out
of all proportion to their impor-
tance. I doubt not you’ll get a raft
of letters on “Meihem in Ce Klas-
rum.” Here is my dime’s worth.

In the first place, Mr. Edwards
greatly underestimates the conserva-
tive sentiment which would oppose
his program. This sentiment, en-

trenched in Congress, threw Theo-
dore Roosevelt for a loss when he
attempted a modest simplification
program. It is not only the instinc-
tive aversion to change which is in-
volved, but also the vested interest
in, for example, trademarks which
would be rendered unintelligible.
More important would be the im-
mense obsolescence of printed mat-
ter. Any flaws in the simplification
program would be pounced upon
and exploited to the utmost. Un-
fortunately, there are many flaws
in such systems as Edwards’,

The. greatest fallacy is that a one-
symbol : one-sound correlation is
possible with our present alphabet
of twenty-six characters and the
English language which is said to
have forty-odd different clusters of
sounds. If the o-s :o-s ideal is aimed
at, the only possibility is something
like the International Phonetic Al-
phabet, with which Edwards seems
as unacquainted as Fred Nash.

It is worth remarking how many
spelling-reformers dive into the
work without reading up on the
multitudes of suggestions that have
already been made. (As a starter,
I suggest the page samples in the
World Almanac.) Also, all too
often they have not troubled to
acquire the rudiments of phonetics.
(The introduction to Webster’s un-
abridged is an easily available
source.) Mr. Edwards is not neces-
sarily subject to this criticism; the
spelling system he aims toward
seems to be one of the better-con-
structed ones. But a number of
objections can be raised to it.

Many people will quite properly

17 «

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raise their eyebrows at a system
which claims to reduce the average
length of words but spells by bai,
later leiter, and children tshildren.
These changes may be phonetically
sound, but having gone so far, Mr,
Edwards cannot excuse stopping
there. Our common o is a diphthong
too, and j is a compound. Perhaps
the overall effect would be a reduc-
tion in the length of words, but it
is hard to justify using two symbols
to indicate a sound which in English
is treated as a unit. It would seem
more sensible to have a single sym-
bol for each diphthong, combina-
tion, or phoneme which is handled
by speakers as a single sound. Re-
lated to this is the desirability of
retaining the practice of using the
same symbol for an affix which may
distinctly change its pronunciation
according to environment, -s is an
example of this: Compare sees and
seeks, cars and carts, -ed acts
much the same way : sagged, sacked.
Also under this general principle
is the practice of spelling a word
the same way even though, ac-
cording to stress, (the man ; the very
man), its vowel sound may be dis-
tinct, or blurred down to one of the
neutral unstressed vowels desig-
nated in the IPA by e and a upside-
down, and in the Webster system
by italicizing the particular vowel.

More special criticisms of Ed-
wards’ system: If he is going to
use ai for the “long i” sound, and
abolish servient e, he will find it
difficult to distinguish long a. If
you spell hate hait, it’s indistinguish-

able from height, and it’s out of the
question to spell it hat. This is
especially serious in view of his de-
cree against “unnecessary” double
letters, which by distinguishing
closed syllables from open syllables
when a suffix is added enable us to
distinguish between mad haters and
mad hatters. There is a method in
the madness of English, you see,
even though many words don’t con-
form to it.

The chief virtue of Edwards’
suggestion, and it is a doubtful one,
seems to be the idea of a special
week every year in which the sim-
plification is progressively_jga«g<a-
rated. If we should 'ever be
able to put such a thing across, it
shouldn’t be wasted on in-between
systems such as that he employs,
or the “scientific” alphabet Funk &
Wagnalls have been trying to popu-
larize. We should go the whole
hog and adopt the International
Phonetic Alphabet, or settle for the
modest reformations agreed upon
by the Simplified Spelling Board,
given in the Merriam-Web&ter, and
pushed by the Dewey decimal
people.

But my latest opinion on the whole
matter is that there are a lot of
things which more urgently require
our attention now than spelling
reform.

I’m glad to see the “Astounding”
disappearing ; I wish that you could
dispose of it altogether. — Jack
Speer, 45 18- 16th N. E, } Seattle 5,
Washington.

17 *

ASTOUNDING SCIENCE-FICTION

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